Category: Non-Fiction/Essays

A short essay, written 23rd July 2026

I have started reading Albert Camus’ ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’. He writes near the start of science and scientific explanations for the world around us. He does not deny the truth of these facts and hypothesis, but rather writes of their absurdity and irrelevance to him. (This is my limited understanding of what I’ve read thus far anyhow, but I am hot and tired and uncomfortable, barely halfway through a nine hour coach journey, so my understanding may well be (is very likely to be) a misunderstanding. But that is not wholly relevant to what I am to write.)

I feel somewhat conflicted on this, or I did, but now less so. I am watching the clouds as the coach moves along, and the sun, as it propels a golden glow through the gaps in the clouds, is casting sunbeams on the world below. I have a vague understanding of how and why these sunbeams exist, and I know I could have a less vague understanding should I do just a little research. Or perhaps my current understanding isn’t so vague at all (I do not imagine it is terribly complex), but the point is: in this moment, I do not care to know.

The sunbeams are beautiful, ethereal. I know this to be true; I see them with my eyes, which I know to be, and I know to tell the truth (as far as I can ever know anything, for I have never been given reason to think otherwise). My eyes tell this to my mind, which I also know to be real, for I think (a little Descartes too, I must really know my stuff (as a side note on that topic, I am not questioning the reality of everything beyond myself, only arguing the irrelevance of said reality)) (my mind, on the contrary, I know for a fact does not always tell me the objective truth, but in this instance is taking from a trusted source: my aforementioned eyes). The question of how these sunbeams exist is entirely irrelevant. The answer to that question has no effect on the beauty of what I see. I see the sunbeams, I see they are beautiful; that is real and that is all the reality that matters (for me, in this moment anyway. I certainly am not arguing that a scientific understanding of things is irrelevant to everyone, all the time).

To sum up, I suppose I am trying to argue that understanding is not necessary for appreciation, satisfaction or contentedness. (I am unsure if this is what Camus was trying to argue too. I am yet to read on and as I mentioned before, am likely misunderstanding most of the points to most of his words (not that that matters either so long as I can separate my understanding of his words from his intention behind the words; I cannot assume the two are the same)). This conclusion circles me back to another thing Camus wrote, just a few pages earlier, that my appreciation of I had previously found troubling.

“This very heart which is mine will forever remain undefinable to me. Between the certainty I have of my existence and the content I try to give to that assurance, the gap will never be filled. For ever I shall be a stranger to myself.”
This passage immediately struck a chord with me, for try as I may I have never managed a full understanding of who I am, why I think the way I do, or why I feel the way I do. I am only very young, as was Camus when he wrote that (unfortunately not so in the context of his too short life), and I know he later wrote that “I have progressed beyond several of the positions which are set down here”, so perhaps in time I will develop an understanding. But that is the future, and not for me to know (yet). So in the present, all I can do is accept this lack of understanding, and the assumption that it will remain that way.

Only this conclusion, to me, is terrifying.
Or at least it was.
I do not believe I have suddenly reached some philosophical epiphany, quenching many of my doubts and troubles. Perhaps tiredness and discomfort have tricked me into a period of false lucidity. But I cannot deny that that which previously frightened me to to such severe lengths that I do not feel comfortable writing of, now almost seems like a comfort itself.

I did not need any understanding of the sunbeams to find satisfaction and even joy in them. So why should I need an understanding of myself to find satisfaction and joy in myself, and my own life?
That is not to say an understanding is bad; the sunbeams would’ve still been beautiful had I a perfect scientific explanation of their existence. And I still, to some extent, wish to pursue an understanding of myself, even if I am convinced that may be in vain. But I cannot find reason why the lack of understanding I currently have should be an obstacle to anything. (Besides, say, meteorology.)

A (very) short essay, written 22nd June 2026

I find myself once again in this suspended state with the desire to write, but a head empty of new words.

“Do not write love-poems. Avoid these forms which are too trite and commonplace…”

Rainer Maria Rilke, a wiser man then than I am now, wrote these words to another who showed a yearning to write (collected in ‘Letters To A Young Poet’). I do not agree with everything Rilke wrote (his words convey a disdain for Spring which I certainly don’t share), but there is a lot of value in his letters, and this sentiment I can understand. Yet I have already done the opposite (and posted one on here!)

The desire to attempt to translate such feelings that I hold for someone into words almost paralyzes all other creativity. Why would I write of anything other than that which I have such wonder of?

I suppose that is because it is easy. Not easy to do well, but easy to access these powerful feelings that dwell on the surface, compared to those more complex that lie deeper.

“Paint your sadness and your desires, your passing thoughts and your belief in some kind of beauty.”

That is endlessly more difficult than writing of a beauty that stands in person in front of you.

“Above all, ask yourself in the stillest hour of the night, must I write?”

But the only answer to this I can accept is yes, so dig deep I must.

A short essay, Written 19th June 2026

I find it really special to look for art in places it distinctly isn’t. Cloud watching for example. People lie down and try to see images in clouds, as if the sky were a canvas being painted by the natural forces of our planet.

I don’t always find it very easy to see these grand works of art. Sometimes I find that difficult, like the world is critiquing my creativity. Clouds are just clouds, branches just move in the wind. But there is beauty in these things as they are, which I grow to appreciate more every day. And the times I do see some randomly occurring art are all the more special for their rarity. Memories of these bring me an amount of a joy I’m consistently surprised by, but do my best to treasure.

A few weeks ago I was sat on the steps in the back garden of my Mum’s house (the use of ‘back’ implies the existence of a front garden. This is incorrect.). It was a sunny day with a gentle breeze, and I was watching the branches of a tree that rose from the opposite side of the garden fence. I may have been listening to music, which often has great impact on me, but in this moment it is not what impacted me. Two small-ish branches stuck out of the top of the tree, perpendicular and only a couple feet apart. Both of these branches had a smaller branch, pointing slightly upwards and towards the other. These smaller branches were arms, and the initial branches bodies, of two people reaching to one another for an embrace. At times their arms crossed and they held each other, but as the wind shifted they blew apart and were reaching from afar. It was a tale of two lovers, kept apart by the whims of forces beyond their control. Or it was someones child, moving away as an adult, only to reunite with their parent on occasion. It was both of these stories and a million more, all somewhat sad but endlessly and undeniably beautiful. All of this entirely within two small branches of a small tree in a small village nestled in the countryside of this (relatively) small country. What a wonderful world I saw in this moment!

A number of months ago (a number I do not nor shall I try to remember) I went to the beach to sit about, read, and eat a pasty. It was the time of year when everybody was taking their dogs to the beach, which I enjoy immensely, as I feel dog-watching is a severely underrated pastime. There was one Golden Labrador who I was especially amused by. The silly little guy was carrying around a driftwood branch as long as itself and a half. Oblivious to how amusingly disproportionate this was, (unrelated but this is proving difficult to write as my cat seems to take great offence to my writing and is determined to get in the way) the dog ran around dragging this stick behind, carving lines into the sand. (Cat’s gone now :( ) The pattern it left behind was nothing more than random lines and circles but it was impossible not to see the beach as a canvas and the stick a paintbrush. I couldn’t help but ask myself; ‘Is this dog an artist?’ I am under no illusion that this was anything but a wholly silly train of thought, but it did get me thinking. The picture this dog had drawn would be universally panned were it put in a gallery, yet I found plenty of joy in it. Who am I then to judge my own or others artistry, when there was such worth for me to find in this simple, random sketch created unknowingly by a dog. I refuse to believe that any work of art can be entirely without worth, in whatever form that may be.

There are more instances I could write of I’m sure, but I wish to find my cat and apologize (for what I don’t know, but she knows better than I do). In the meantime I will continue to look for these randomly occurring pieces of art, and I urge you, should you be someone other than myself, to do the same.