On absurdism - You still believe in bigger meaning. You still look for substance. You still have the idea that certain things have more substance than the other. As if a greater mass means less matter. None of it matters regardless. Your seriousness and desire for depth and substance only trap you in the same cycle you detest. Don’t you feel your resistance becoming just as performative itself? Haven’t you realized in your existential boredom that everything is a copy of something else? That there are no originals? You feel guilt for existing in such a world so you’ve decided to play God and create your own. Don’t you feel how artificial and rigid your cute little microcosm has become? Doesn’t it feel familiar? Can you feel at all at this point? Is it too overwhelming? You mock everything indignantly as if it hurt you. Do you really think you’re that stern? You’re afraid to even exhale because you think your whole body will fall apart. All that air you’re holding in. All that anger at the slow leaks because they’re proof of your existence in such a gray speculative world. There’s nothing more to do but play along or implode. Might as well have fun with it instead of being so damn miserable :/