[A garden in Athens. ARISTOS, a philosopher with dishevelled hair and an unusually neat beard, sits on a stone bench. His student, DEMOS, approaches with furrowed brow.]
DEMOS: Master Aristos, I’ve spent all morning contemplating my existence, and I’ve reached a most troubling conclusion: life appears to be utterly meaningless.
ARISTOS: Ah, Demos, you’ve stumbled upon existentialism before breakfast. How ambitious of you! Most people require at least a strong cup of tea before confronting the void.
DEMOS: But if there is no inherent meaning to life, what’s the point of all this philosophising?
ARISTOS: The point, dear boy, is precisely that there is no point—until you create one. As Sartre would say, existence precedes essence. Rather like how one must exist before ordering takeaway.
DEMOS: I’m not sure I follow.
ARISTOS: Think of it this way: you weren’t born with an instruction manual, were you? No divine blueprint explaining your purpose?
DEMOS: No, though that would have been rather convenient.
ARISTOS: Indeed! Instead, you first exist, and then—through your choices—you define who you are. You are condemned to be free, as it were.
DEMOS: Condemned? Freedom sounds rather pleasant.
ARISTOS: Until you realise it comes with responsibility. Every choice shapes your essence, and there’s no cosmic authority to blame for poor decisions. Rather like choosing to wear sandals with socks—one must own the consequences.
DEMOS: That’s terribly anxiety-inducing.
ARISTOS: Precisely! Kierkegaard called it dread. Heidegger referred to it as angst. I call it “Tuesday.”
DEMOS: So we’re all just… here? In an absurd, meaningless universe?
ARISTOS: Camus would certainly agree. He compared life to Sisyphus eternally pushing his boulder uphill. The universe is indifferent to our struggles, much like the London weather to our outdoor plans.
DEMOS: That’s horribly depressing.
ARISTOS: Only if you miss the liberation in it! The absurdity of existence allows authentic living. When nothing inherently matters, everything potentially matters—if you choose it to.
DEMOS: But Master, if there’s no objective truth, how do we know what’s right?
ARISTOS: We don’t “know”—we commit. We make choices in good faith, aware of our freedom and its weight. As Sartre noted, “Hell is other people,” though he clearly never experienced the Northern Line at rush hour.
DEMOS: So, the meaning of life is…?
ARISTOS: Whatever you authentically choose it to be. The existentialist doesn’t discover meaning like finding loose change between sofa cushions—they create it, like an artist with a blank canvas.
DEMOS: That’s both terrifying and oddly comforting.
ARISTOS: The paradox of existentialism, my dear Demos! Now, shall we break for lunch? Nothing highlights the absurdity of existence quite like a soggy cucumber sandwich.
DEMOS: One final question, Master: If we create our own meaning, how do we know we’ve chosen correctly?
ARISTOS: That, my boy, is the beautiful anguish of freedom. We never truly know. We simply must choose and live with magnificent uncertainty—rather like ordering the “chef’s special” at an unfamiliar restaurant.
DEMOS: I think I need that cup of tea now.
ARISTOS: Excellent choice. Existence may be meaningless, but Earl Grey rarely disappoints.
