When you call your mother, what should we do? you’re not looking for the meaning itself but for what there’s left without it. You’ve finished Camus and the chamomile tea – you feel a revolution or a metaphorical suicide.
When you go for a walk, there’s wind to notice – which you do. A book is torn to shreds on the grass, pages make mini tornadoes on the pavement, a seagull treads one foot at a time, swinging its pathetic lump of a body with each step, he could be a dancer reincarnated or a rich woman. Does it mean anything?
You follow the white pole of a lamppost to the sky, to its grey underwhelm with nothing to say about the matter. Overcast and dull like the static of a TV without a clear signal. We make our own. That’s what we do. It’s the spiderweb of meanings, but do we have to?