“the truth is out there”
The world as we knew it has ended. It’s not an exaggeration or a poetic turn of phrase, it truly feels like we’re living in a post-apocalyptic reality because, in many ways, we are. We exist within the hollowed-out corpse of the world we all grew up in, clinging to the remnants of dreams that no longer fit the landscape. Those dreams, the ones that once guided us through adolescence and into adulthood, are now as outdated as the vintage VHS tapes gathering dust on eBay listings. They were crafted for a reality that no longer exists, making them maladapted relics. Trixie and Katya summed it up perfectly on their podcast, The Bald and the Beautiful, when they pointed out the surreal absurdity of today’s world: immigrants are being sent to Guantanamo Bay while horrid films like Emilia Perez are winning awards. It’s a juxtaposition so insane that it borders on satire. And yet, it’s our reality.!! Nothing makes sense anymore, and trying to force meaning onto this chaotic world feels like trying to put back toothpaste into a tube you stepped on in your dirty bathroom.
This absurdity is precisely why I find solace in absurdism, a philosophy that acknowledges the meaninglessness of existence but challenges us to find our own purpose regardless. It’s the only framework that seems to fit this stupidly abdsurd age. Absurdism has been my anchor through the past few years, which have felt like a fever dream from which we can’t seem to wake. It’s a philosophy that allows me to laugh at it all, to embrace the chaos without succumbing to nihilism. It gives me the freedom to craft my own narrative, even if that narrative is NONSENSE! My entire online persona, this Halloween-centric identity I’ve curated, is built on the foundation of absurdism. It’s not just about spooky aesthetics or seasonal nostalgia and never has been; it’s about embracing the unexplainable. Halloween, to me, represents a world that defies logic and transcends human meaning. It’s a space where the mundane rules of existence don’t apply. It’s addictive. I can’t fully articulate why seeing a cardboard witch in a storefront or a glowing jack-o’-lantern on a neighbor’s porch fills me with a sense of otherworldly comfort and awe, but I’m glad it does.
In a world that increasingly feels like a dystopian simulation, Halloween is my rebellion against the chaos. It’s my way of asserting that meaning is where you choose to find it, even if that meaning is in something as seemingly trivial as a rubber bat or a bag of candy corn.
