This week I grappled with some heavy ideas. I read Persepolis 2 and discovered Jean-Paul Sartre, and ever since I have been throwing around a single question in my mind, receiving no clear answer: Why? Why do we exist, especially when our contributions to the world seem nonexistent at times? And why are there no definite answers to the questions that matter most?

Maybe I’m being absurd. Am I trying too hard to find meaning? That would be no surprise; I do it all the time. I hold on to trivial things for their small significance: a homemade paper ship that a friend once cracked a joke about and notes passed during class. If I collect silly material objects because they mean something to me, then why wouldn’t I treat life the same way? Of course I want to find meaning in everything.

But I always seem to make things so unnecessarily complex. Even ordinary interactions. If someone says something to me that I feel could be interpreted several different ways, I’ll spend hours worrying about what they really meant. Even the classic “I’m fine” will bother me, because I can’t figure out if the person is actually fine or really angry. I always have a nagging feeling that there must be something that I’m not seeing. I don’t know what to think anymore. ♦