Tonight I found myself lost.
I was deep in thought, desperate to make sense of a rather dry book on Existentialism. Suddenly a ladybug landed in the middle of the text I couldn’t decode for the life of me.
This ladybug didn’t mean much to me at first; it simply annoyed me. I brushed it away, sighed and returned to my studies in nothingness, absurdity, despair.
You know, the fun stuff.
A few pages later, my mind drifting, it hit me: I don’t know what I believe in. I have no philosophy to call my own.
What am I, after all? The sum total of every book I’ve read? All the music I’ve consumed? Movies I’ve seen? Teachers I’ve had?
Sure, these things (and people) have shaped me, but what thoughts are wholly mine, what way of life have I devised for myself?
I undervalued the significance of this winged creature–my wakeup call. One thing’s clear, though: Tonight there’s a ladybug on my bookcase that knows as much about Existentialism as I do.