So That's What My Recent State Is Called: an "Existential Crisis"

Lately my state has been this: everything is fine, yet I still doubt my life has any value. On the one hand I'm fired up every day — learning about Ray Dalio's cycles of great powers, researching how to renovate a house with a garden, being moved by the human history contained in a single patterned tile; on the other, I'm terrified of being "the one who takes half a step wrong and realises he's fallen a thousand li behind," lost about the values behind whether to lock down cities during the pandemic, anxious about the future of US–China relations, and wavering about the direction of my life's pursuits.

But I can't stop either. Many questions can't be answered by thinking alone. And so much good fortune has come my way that it feels as if, unless I work with everything I've got, I'm letting down fate's gift; and if I don't grow, the times will discard me in no time. I know I'll certainly get through this life just fine, yet I'm afraid of idling my days away like an ant. But in this vast universe, who isn't an ant?

While meditating today, the phrase "existential crisis" suddenly popped into my head. I looked it up, and my symptoms more or less match. Let's call it that for now — the term sounds very sophisticated, and it's at least much better than "midlife crisis."

Tolstoy once fell into an existential crisis too; the classic symptom is constantly asking "why."

Why should I care? Whatever I do in this life, whatever I accomplish, sooner or later it will be forgotten; sooner or later, I and the people I love will die, and "nothing will be left but stench and worms." Since everything vanishes and is in the end completely forgotten, what is the point of struggling?

But then again, and moreover, why care?

Why does being remembered forever matter? Does being remembered, or living forever, make something meaningful? Why do we need a meaning to existence at all?

As the philosopher Epictetus said: "You must remind yourself that what you love is mortal, that nothing you love is your own; it is given to you for the present, not forever, nor inseparably, but like a fig or a bunch of grapes, at the appointed season of the year. If you long for it in winter, you are a fool. So if you long for your son or your friend when it is not given to you, know that you are longing for a fig in winter."

It's about time I seriously read some philosophy. After graduating from university, I always wanted to do a master's in philosophy, because I know those questions that go beyond everyday life, the ones about life and death, have always troubled me. I believe the great philosophers have all thought about this question already.

That said, though I've been lost about meaning lately, there's been plenty of joy — the joy of designing and renovating.

I'm planning to talk about it in my next post.