Dire Straits?

Like most people who haven’t got a fucking clue as to what they’re supposed to be doing with their lives, I often spend a size-able proportion of my meaningless days dwelling on how meaningless it is to start with. Jean-Paul Sartre described this feeling as the ‘nausea’. A coiling and re-coiling worm in the pit of your stomach that falls prey to those who worry too much about the what’s, who’s, why’s and how’s.

Do you not ever find yourself wondering about the rat race that we’ve been born into? ‘Cos I do. And a lot of the time I find myself coming to the conclusion that everything’s all a bit of a joke so you may as well go out and party and come back to figuring shit out tomorrow (or maybe the day after depending on how big the bender is). I’ve wasted too many minutes questioning the worth of my idiosyncrasies when I could have just read Jean-Paul Sartre or Albert Camus from day one to have saved myself some hassle. If you ever want to read a self-help book that doesn’t cheapen or degrade your reading standards (yes John Gray I’m looking at you) then please check out the works of these Existential greats. I could talk for hours about how deliciously liberating their words are but I’ll rain check that for another day..

This is a poem that formed itself after reading Albert Camus’ The Stranger, I hope you all enjoy my words.

Fenella x

Existential Crisis

Alright, so lately,

All I’ve been thinking about is graduating,

And it’s agitating to know that I should be elevating

To new heights,

People say it’s this great delight

But if you ask me I’m having a crisis,

And I can’t describe it.



When I’m gone are people even gunna mention me?

I can’t make sense of these dimensions,

It feels like I’ve been sucked into this endless, montonous, addition

That’s draining my ambitions

Or my private inhibitions

To just keep going,

My mind’s flowing,

The anxieties showing

And I blink and it’s New Year again,

And we’re all kissing each other

In a messed up, pilled up daze,

What happened to all my days?

I swear I had them safely tucked away in my youthful play?

Gone in a haze,

Up in a blaze,

Chasing that puff that goes off with smoke,

As I watch it linger in the air before it finally croaks.

It’s like I’m waiting for this big epiphany,

But all I’m thinking about is that that lingering smoke that croaks is me.

Do you know what? Time’s a joke

And I never asked for it,

I just got given it,

By some bullshit order, a-temporally disordered

State of the universe

Preaching this shit that the sky’s the limit

But only if you’ve got time to go with it.

It’s a bit like saying, do you want fries with that?

Well of course I want fries with that

Are you gunna give me time with that?

Why is no-one starting to react?

I feel like I’m gunna re-lapse

Sit back and watch space and time collapse

From this sticky inertia,

Doing things just for the hell-of-it and vice-versa,

Either way your move’s gunna be the same pre-cursor

To the inextricably predictable end-game.

‘Cos that’s one thing you’ll know for sure,

But it still feels like I need a doctor’s cure

For my mental recession.

How is that I only start making sense of time

When I start talking in rhymes?

I let my words navigate the beautiful and the sublime

And then I’m calm again.

And then I think to myself…

What a wonderful world.


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