The earliest ideas that I had about existentialism were based on my little observations that the mind was most at peace when it was occupied. As I write this, I can foresee and must warn the reader in anticipation, about how bland and without structure this essay is going to be. As I understand them, compositional structures are in fact nothing but sets of rules (albeit very very flexible and so very varied WRT a human interpreter) that loosely guide the mind on how a text is to be understood. An essay without a clearly(loosely?) defined structure is not just useless because a reader without atleast an abstract mental image of the author would find it inaccessible, but by the fact that the author would himself on returning to the essay after a while find it completely nonsensical or in trying to resolve it’s meaning, lost. But today, let me put aside the need to pen a meaningful essay, because it is sufficient that it is meaningful to me and sufficient that it is meaningful to me in this moment. On regular days, thoughts come to my mind fully formed (or at atleast it feels that way) The senses perceive a stimulus and the mind responds with a list of instructions that are actively modified and unblurred as their number approaches. But on days when the body/mind has little to do, the mind is thrown straight into that Camalian desert of confusion and chaos. On days like this, It’s not ideas or sentences that one receives, but a constant bombardment of abstract memes that tantalisingly let one get a whiff of all the many different fully formed ideas that they could fit into, or being so powerful themselves, one’s they could evolve into, but then before one of these could manifest, the memes disappear into the void without a trace. I have been lying in the same place for hours and hours before penning this essay, striving unsuccessfully to capture atleast one such idea and resolve it to keep the mind occupied. But in failing to do so, and sensing an approaching madness from repeated operations of the same kind (like a machine pointlessly trying to resolve a fraction with zero as the denominator) I’ve been led here. I’ve never been able to (even after much discussion and introspection) either understand or get a feel of Camalian philosophy. And whenever I think about it, I can’t bring myself to agree with the conclusions Camus arrives at. Happiness does not lie in accepting that the meaning of life cannot be resolved, or convincing the mind through mental acrobatics that its understanding is an insignificant concern, but in gaining full and faultless control over it.