The Existential Crisis

Where am I? What does it mean to say: the world? What is the meaning of that word? Who tricked me into this whole thing and leaves me standing here? Who am I? How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it, why was I not informed of the rules and regulations but just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought from a peddling shanghaier of human beings? How did I get involved in this big enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn’t it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager? I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint? 

― Søren Kierkegaard from Repetition, A Venture in Experimental Psychology

Søren Kierkegaard was born on 5th May, 1813.

The exceptional

And we believe all our experiences are singular.
Yesterday a young girl pushed her hair behind her ears and smiled while looking at herself in the shop window just like I do ever so often.
A child chasing pigeons in Victoria Park fell and mirrored the expression you make in this faded photograph from some thirty years ago.
The sunset we went ecstatic over in Goa has found it’s way on this flickr photostream tagged beach sunset.
The lovers tiff we had some ten years back is being replayed even as I type, on the park bench outside my window.
These words I write, this thought, this sigh have been a part of countless singular experiences.

Now that’s truly exceptional.