you can struggle in the water and be too stubborn to die, or you could just let go and be lifted to the sky.

Existential anguish. Existentialists say we should embrace it. Swallow it. Accept it. For it is the human condition, and as such running from it is futile. To deny it is to be a coward, to not exist. "We must not be cowards!" they scream as they ride onto the battlefield. There is no escape. "THERE IS NO EXIT!" as they stab at faith and hope and rationalists.

And they're right. There is no exit. Every time you're at a bar or on your couch smoking a bowl or playing a video game or singing some song, the anguish is waiting. It is here it is on your shoulders it is breathing down your neck. All around you is uncertainty. It is woven into the air you breath it is in your lungs it is you and it is everything else. How dare you waste your time being meaningless! How dare you pretend you do not exist!
But why do anything? Why is doing something "productive" any better than doing something "lazy"? How do I not be meaningless? I must live in light of my anguish, my despair, my abandonment. i must live my life knowing that tomorrow may never come, knowing that the next five minutes may never come, knowing that my loves could be gone the next time i blink, and never try to escape. Why should i write a book? Who will read it when the world is gone? Will any one read it if the world stays around? Why should i do anything? Why try for futile things?

However. Escape seems necessary to the human being. If everything really is meaningless (which it is) and everything is so heavy with anguish and despair and abandonment, how am i supposed to cope? Why should i want to be alive if existence is such a perpetually painful place? Why should i want to be alive if there is no escape and if trying to escape makes me weak?
I don't know. I don't know.
I do know that if there is no escape other than death, and if suicide makes you weak, then we must embrace the pleasures of this life along with the pain. But this is so hard when it seems like so many of our "pleasures" are nothing but forms of escape. Whenever I get lost in a book or a movie or in writing a song or singing a song or putting together a puzzle, i am getting lost so as to pretend that the pain of the world does not exist. What a pussy I am! or am i?
The obvious conclusion is balance. I must balance my existence with escape, and escape must be in far smaller portions than my existence. It is worth something at this point to mention that "meaning" only exists if an individual gives something subjective meaning, thus if you have logical reasoning as to why your action is meaningful to you (which would involve considering what affect your actions will have on the ever present "other" and what affect it Should have on others), then I think that it can stand as not being a waste of time. But this balance is so hard. Every time i'm at a bar hanging with friends, i could be making a song or writing an essay or writing a story or reading something that will make me smarter. I could be doing something more productive. So so so so so so so many people have so much goddamn talent and capabilities to make beautiful beautiful things, but they waste waste waste time. Sure you'll say "I make a point to balance my work time and play time" But do you? Do you really? Dont you understand that most of the greats busted their balls all day long to create their master pieces? Do you think they went out to the bars or shopped or went to a party 5-6 times a week and called that "balance"? Maybe. Maybe. but i dont think so. i think they busted their fucking asses until a masterpiece was born. Then of course, i reckon you're allowed some extra play time. Some reward time. But where is your master piece? What have you done to make you worthy of your play time? You coward. We are not children any more goddammit. Goddammit.

i am breaking tradition a bit here. a new, big story is a day or two away.

Stories.
Stories are what we have. Almost all we have. So much of life is dedicated to telling someone something about your past. even the simple "whats up?" or "how are you?" to answer these questions we must tell stories.
Not only must we tell stories, we also must hear them. The way we learn is via these tales of lives that are not our own. When you ask for advice or tell your friend about a funny time last night, these are ways that we learn about other people, and thus they are ways that we learn about ourselves. We are nothing without others, remember this. When you tell me about the girl you just fucked or the man you just met or the show you just saw or the book that bruised your brain or the storm last night or how drunk you got a few days ago or how your cat just died or that your dad just lost his job, i am learning. i am soaking it in. i am reasoning. i am saying "yes" "no" "good" "bad". i am learning to make decisions by making decisions.
Storytelling.

Ah dearest Hemingway. I see what you mean.

"What else can we do now? Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair well the night's busting open these two lanes will take us anywhere."

Oh my god, what a beautiful day.

Let's sail away.