Outsourcing Meaning: A Remedy for Absurdity and Existential Angst

When the universe offers no answers, religion steps in with meaning, comfort, and ritual — but not without questions and contradictions.

To outsource meaning is to relinquish the burden of self-authorship.

Arun Kumar

Summary: Here we explore the task of meaning-making and religious outsourcing as a solution. It examines how faith offers psychological relief and rituals to reinforce belief. In this paradigm, suffering and other awkward questions are rationalized by some means. We also acknowledge the limitations of such frameworks.

If your life affords the luxury of mental space to contemplate the relationship between your ephemeral existence and the universe, you are likely to encounter the unsettling realization of the absurdity of your situation.

This absurdity arises not only from the sheer disparity of scales — your fleeting presence in time and space set against the vastness of the cosmos — but from something more disquieting: the universe, which made your existence possible, offers no guidance on why you are here or whether there was any purpose behind your creation. It remains silent, indifferent, and unyielding to questions or inquiry for a meaning.

You come to realize that you have been thrust into an arena without being told the nature of the game, the rules of engagement, or the meaning behind the battles you are destined to fight. In those moments, you cannot help but mutter, “This is just absurd.”

From this realization of absurdity emerges existential angst — a diffuse yet persistent unease, a gnawing dread that the veil of meaning draped over your daily actions may fall at any moment to reveal that there is nothing behind. The routines you follow, the goals you pursue, the values you uphold, suddenly all begin to shimmer with uncertainty. You start to suspect that your choices, your rituals, your ambitions might be nothing more than an elaborate charade, performed on a stage whose audience is either absent, indifferent, or worse — distracted, scrolling through their smartphones. It is existential angst born of a missing narrative, a lack of direction in the unfolding progression of your life.

This confrontation with absurdity is not new. It reverberated through the works of Camus, Kierkegaard, and Sartre — each wrestling with the tension between human existence, our longing for meaning, and the universe’s persistent refusal to provide it. Across cultures and centuries, we have devised other responses to make getting out of bed manageable. Some responses are deeply personal, others collective and all center around easing the burden of our existential predicament by imbuing our life with meaning and purpose. One such creative response is to outsource the task of meaning-making to a designer: a being beyond us, imagined as capable of assigning purpose to the universe and to our place within it.

Outsourcing the Meaning of Our Existence

To outsource meaning is to relinquish the existential burden of self-authorship for crafting a personal narrative that imbues life with purpose; a task that is not trivial. Instead, one entrusts that responsibility to a higher intelligence. In this framework, the universe, and its evolution, is not a chaotic accident but a deliberate creation. Our existence is not incidental, but intentional. The designer — often referred to as God — is imagined as possessing capabilities far beyond human comprehension. This being not only created the universe but continues to guide its unfolding, keeping tabs on the bazillion intricacies that ripple across time and space and keeping it all moving along an envisioned trajectory.

This solution offers psychological relief. It transforms existential angst into belief. If our lives are part of a divine plan, then suffering carries purpose, injustice awaits resolution, and death is merely a transition rather than an end. The absurdity loses its sting, and the angst is soothed by the assurance of a meaning.

Organized Religion as a Manifestation of Outsourcing

This outsourcing of meaning forms the backbone of organized religion. Most religious traditions posit a creator who imbues the universe with purpose and provides moral guidance. Whether it is the Abrahamic God, the Brahman of Hinduism, or the Tao of Taoism, the designer — however conceived — is central to the religious worldview.

Religion institutionalizes the outsourcing of meaning. It offers rituals to reinforce belief, scriptures to codify purpose, and communities to sustain faith. The act of prayer, the rhythm of liturgy, the architecture of sacred spaces — often infused with the scent of incense to bring in a visceral feeling of some transcendental presence — serve to anchor the outsourced meaning in the fabric of daily life. Through faith, religion addresses questions that reason struggles to resolve, offering coherence where logic falters and comfort where uncertainty reigns.

But There Are Cracks

Yet the outsourcing solution is not without its awkward questions, and at times it stands on shaky ground requiring continuous reinforcement to sustain its foundation. If a designer created the universe, why is suffering so widespread? Why do inequality, injustice, and cruelty persist? Why is the world not a utopia? And more provocatively, why would such a being choose to create a universe at all? Was it a grand experiment, or a cosmic Colosseum for its entertainment?

Religious traditions offer a range of responses. Some frame suffering as a test of faith, a crucible for spiritual growth. Others interpret it as the consequence of free will (and making choices against the guidance from the deity) or karmic debt. Still others promise future rewards, enlightenment, and liberation for those who endure. The answers begin to resemble a progression through levels and challenges like in a video game, where each trial must be overcome to unlock the promised reward at the end.

These answers may offer comfort, but they also strain credulity. The scale and randomness of suffering defy tidy explanations. They raise the possibility that outsourcing meaning may be less a metaphysical truth than a psychological necessity, a construct designed to soothe, rather than to explain.

The Universal Accessibility

Despite its limitations, the outsourcing solution has been remarkably successful. If I were to wager, I would say that most people gravitate toward it for reasons of birth or social conditioning. After all, how else can we explain the geographic clustering of religious affiliation, where vast populations converge around the same spiritual framework? Many adopt this path without ever undergoing the existential journey, without muttering “this is absurd,” or feeling the angst that often follows such a realization. Only a fraction of the population is born again, finding faith as a solution after searching (and failing) elsewhere.

Its universality suggests that it may be the easier option — more accessible, more socially reinforced, and less cognitively challenging. Unlike the do-it-yourself model, which requires philosophical introspection and existential courage, outsourcing can be adopted passively. One can be born into a religious tradition, inducted through family and culture, and never confront the abyss of absurdity directly.

This accessibility has advantages. It allows meaning to be inherited rather than invented. It offers a ready-made narrative that can be personalized without being constructed from scratch. It provides a sense of belonging, a moral compass, and a cosmic context, all without demanding existential struggle and heroism.

Recap

Outsourcing meaning to a designer is a clever, and a widely successful human response to the realization of absurdity and the existential angst that follows. It offers comfort, coherence, and community. It transforms the silence of the universe into the voice of a god.

To outsource is to choose faith over doubt, mystery over clarity, and belonging over solitude. It is a valid choice, and for many, a deeply comforting one. Who are we to judge the soundness of this path, when the universe offers no absolute yardsticks for judgment and leaves the task to us? Just as it is reasonable to embrace faith, it is equally valid to pursue other paths to rein in absurdity and soothe existential angst.

The choice is yours to make.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Absurdity and Angst: Exploring Two Moods of Being

A meditation on absurdity and angst — two moods that shape our search for meaning in a silent, indifferent universe.

If absurdity is the slapstick humor existence offers, angst is its silent fog — something existence must occasionally walk through.

Arun Kumar

Summary: We explore the quiet tension between absurdity and existential angst — two moods that arise from our search for meaning in an indifferent universe. Through personal reflection about happenings in life, we examine how absurdity may provoke laughter or resignation, angst lingers as a fog of unease, demanding deeper contemplation.

Perhaps it is just me, but I know and feel absurdity far more viscerally than angst. Absurdity leaps out from the folds of daily life, often with a kind of comical clarity, while angst lurks in the shadows — diffuse, elusive, harder to name. Absurdity is the punchline of reality’s joke played on us; angst is the quiet dread that there may be no joke at all to enliven the circumstance.

Let us begin with definitions. Absurdity, as the dictionary puts it, is “the quality or state of being ridiculous or wildly unreasonable.” It arises from the mismatch between our expectations and what reality delivers — a jarring incongruity that prompts us to mutter, “This is absurd.” And indeed, examples abound.

You go to the beach on a sunny day, no forecast of rain, and yet a rogue cloud builds directly overhead. Within minutes, you are drenched, scrambling to save your belongings from a ten-minute deluge. Absurd.

You drive forty minutes to a warehouse store for a couple of bottles of Chianti Classico you have recently come to enjoy. But the shelf is empty for the first time, and just when you were looking forward to savoring its aroma that evening. The long drive, the time spent, and the thwarted anticipation all seem absurd.

You leave early for a doctor’s appointment, carefully navigating unexpectedly heavy traffic, and arrive just in time only to wait another hour because they are running late. The whole sequence of events feels absurd.

These moments are neither tragic nor deeply consequential, nor are they particularly unsettling. They simply remind us of the universe’s indifference to our intentions. Absurdity arises from the collision between our desire for order and the world’s refusal to cooperate. It is a microcosm of what Albert Camus described as “the confrontation between the human need for meaning and the unreasonable silence of the world towards that need.” The absurd lies in the persistent, unanswered need for meaning from the very universe that made our existence possible.

Angst, by contrast, is harder to pin down — at least for me. The dictionary defines it as “a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general.” It is a vague sensation that, even when everything appears normal, something ominous looms just beyond perception. It is not fear of anything specific, but a diffuse uneasy sense that something is missing, though you cannot quite say what.

Real-life examples of angst are harder to enumerate, less accessible than those of absurdity. You wake up on a Sunday morning with no obligations; you look forward to enjoying a day without commitment. An hour later, however, you start to feel a strange restlessness. You aimlessly wander through the house, pick up a book, put it down. You do not quite know what to do with the time affluence the day has offered, and its weight feels heavy. That is the feeling of angst.

You have reached retirement after decades of work, financial planning, and anticipation of life ahead. The calendar is open, the pressure is gone, and yet… a strange unease sets in. You wonder: What now? What will give my days a meaning without deadlines or deliverables? The feeling is more than boredom; it is a deeper disquiet, a sense that although some essential ingredient is missing, you cannot quite name it. That is angst.

You are awake at 2 a.m. — not jolted by a nightmare but stirred by a vague sense that something is not right. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, turning over your relationships, your choices, your future. There is no crisis, no clear problem, just a quiet, persistent unease. You feel untethered, as if the ground beneath your life is shifting, or might shift without warning. That is angst.

If absurdity is the slapstick humor existence offers, angst is its silent fog — something existence must occasionally walk through. Angst does not announce itself with thunder or empty shelves; it drifts in during moments of stillness, when the scaffolding of what once seemed certain, or desirable begins to tremble.

Now, what of existential angst?

The term “existential” refers to our existence — the finite slice of time between birth and death. It is a span so brief it barely registers against the vast backdrop of cosmic time. The absurdity of existence is, in some ways, is easy to grasp: all that we do in that fleeting interval — our struggles, ambitions, joys, and suffering — seems to amount to nothing in the end. We build, we strive, we love, we win, we lose, and then we vanish. The universe that made our existence possible does not blink, and that indifference feels absurd.

Existential angst is the emotional response to recognizing the absurdity of our condition. It is the unease that arises from realizing that life holds no inherent meaning. It is not merely the fear of death, but the disquiet of living without a guaranteed purpose. It is the sense that something essential is missing, perhaps justification for existence itself.

Unlike absurdity, which often provokes laughter or resignation, existential angst invites reflection and can lead to a quiet despair born of not knowing what to do, or how to make sense of our existence.

Perhaps, in the future when instances of angst occur, when the fog rolls in, it will be worth pausing and internalizing such events. Over time, this practice may deepen our visceral understanding of angst and help us grasp its contours more clearly.

And, by understanding it better, we may find a way to live in peace with it.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

A Bus Ride in Tuscany

On a Tuscan bus ride, a retired traveler reflects on aging, mortality, and the quiet wisdom of an eighty-nine-year-old companion.

Wisdom cannot be captured in words. It lives in the way we choose to find joy and meaning.

Arun Kumar

Summary: A reflective essay set on a bus ride in Tuscany, where we contemplate aging, mortality, and joy through the quiet presence of an eighty-nine-year-old fellow traveler. Retirement, time affluence, and the joy of lived experience converge in a meditation on how to shape meaning in the later chapters of life.

I am sitting in a bus travelling down some highway in Tuscany. It feels oddly formal to call this a vacation. Since retiring in early 2025, my days — unlike the tightly scheduled ones of working life — have taken on a loose, fluid rhythm. In theory, I am perpetually free. The calendar is mine to shape. I am, as they say, the master of my own domain.

Yet the word “vacation” [vacacioun, “freedom from obligations, leisure, release” (from some activity or occupation)] carries the scent of escape — a vacating from something, a sanctioned pause from toil, a brief reprieve from the relentless pursuit of productivity. But in retirement, when the calendar is no longer crowded and the demands have softened, what exactly am I escaping from?

Perhaps some words just become a matter of habit. Perhaps their continued use is an inertia that becomes a part of our psyche. And so, the term “vacation” persists — not because it fits, but because it gestures toward a shift, a departure, a moment of intentional difference. Maybe trips like this will always wear that label.

This trip to Italy is our first formal journey since my retirement. We chose an arranged tour which is an act of deliberate surrender. After years of self-planned travel, this was a planned outsourcing of effort. Let someone else manage the trains, the hotels, the museum tickets. Let us simply be passengers, not planners. And so, we find ourselves on a bus with forty-eight other souls.

Among our fellow travelers is Margaret. She will turn eighty-nine in a few days, and when she does, we will all gather to sing “Happy Birthday” to her. But even before the celebration, Margaret has already become a quiet beacon. She is not merely present — she is luminous. There is something in her bearing that draws my attention, something both inspiring and elusive.

Watching her, I begin to wonder: What is her perspective on life? What does the day ahead mean to someone who has lived nine decades? Does she wake with plans, or with a quiet openness to whatever the day may bring? Does her mind drift far into the future, or does it mostly rest in the now — because at her age, “far into the future” is no longer be a meaningful concept.

And what of joy — does hers carry the weight of mortality, or has that awareness becomes a kind of liberation? A quiet acknowledgment: I do not have many days left, so why not savor what remains?

I am sixty-seven. Twenty-two years younger than Margaret, and I feel the gravitational pull of her presence — an invitation to imagine my own future self. If I am fortunate enough to reach her age, how will I view the days that remain? Will I sip wine with the same anticipation I do now? Will I still seek novelty, or will I find comfort in repetition? Will I fear the end, or will I have made peace with it?

These questions accompany me as we drive from Montecatini to Cinque Terre, the Tuscan hills rolling past the window like a slow procession of time. I find myself half-listening to the guide’s commentary, half-drifting into reverie. I imagine sitting with Margaret at a seaside café — coffee and croissant between us, the Mediterranean breeze tousling our hair. I would ask her about her inner landscape. What has changed in her thinking over the years? What has softened, what has sharpened? What does she know now that she did not at 67?

Perhaps she would tell me that joy becomes simpler with age. That the grandeur of ambition fades, and the small pleasures — sunlight on stone, the taste of a ripe peach — are the pleasures one seeks. Perhaps she would say that mortality, once feared, has become a quiet presence. Not ominous but liberating.

Or perhaps she would say nothing at all. Perhaps her wisdom cannot be captured in words. It lives in the way she looks at the world, in the way she smiles at her fellow passengers, in the way she chooses to be delighted.

In contemplating Margaret, I am really contemplating myself and my future self. Retirement has given me time affluence, but affluence did not come with wisdom on utilizing it. For not to be wasted, it must be shaped and questioned. And so, I ask: How do I want to age? Not just physically, but philosophically and spiritually. What kind of an older person do I hope to become? In doing that, I want to learn her secret.

As the bus winds its way toward the coast of Cinque Terre, I feel a quite gratitude. For accidentally knowing Margaret. For Tuscany. For the awareness of questions that have no easy answers. For the serendipitous chance to imagine a future self who is not afraid of endings, but who finds a beginning in each day.

In a few days, we will all disperse to go our own ways and will say farewells. The vision of Margret will be my memory from this vacation.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

 

Letters from a Retirement Community (7): The Pivot-Ready Life and Building an Adaptive Retirement

When plans dissolve, a pivot-ready life turns disappointment into opportunity, especially in retirement.

To pivot well is to anticipate the need for alternatives before the moment demands them.

Arun Kumar

Summary: This essay explores the importance of living a pivot-ready life in retirement — one prepared to embrace change, adapt to physical and cognitive shifts, and find meaningful alternatives when plans fall through.

I went to bed last night with the quiet thrill of anticipation. Morning would bring pickleball, a cherished ritual, a rhythm, a gathering that is part of my days.

In the 55+ community where I now live, the pickleball court is more than a place to play. It is a social commons, a budding café, not unlike an Italian bistro where locals sip espresso at the counter, exchanging stories and laughter before the day unfolds. Here, we seasoned souls gather, each with a paddle in hand and a tale to share — the latest Viking cruise; a new grandchild; a trip to the ER.

But this morning, nature had other plans. A soft drizzle was falling, not dramatic, just enough to dampen the court and cancel the game. I lingered over my Earl Grey and scrambled eggs, hoping the clouds might relent. They did not. And so, with three hours of open time and no paddle in hand, I found myself in a familiar but often underappreciated situation: the need to pivot.

To pivot is to adapt. It is not just to react but reorient. It is the art of finding alternatives when well thought out plans and routines dissolve. It is having a mental muscle that turns disappointment into opportunity. In the forward march of time, especially in retirement, pivoting is an essential skill to have.

Consider the vacation meticulously planned, only to be rained out. Pivot: visit museums, explore bookstores, linger in cafés. Or the restaurant you arrive at without a reservation, only to be told the wait is an hour. Pivot: have a list of nearby alternatives, perhaps even a hidden place you have been meaning to try.

Retirement, more so than others, demands a pivot-ready life. The pace of change accelerates — not because the world spins faster, but because our bodies and minds begin cascading through transitions with unnerving speed. What once felt stable now seems provisional. A minor ache becomes chronic condition. A twisted ankle on the pickleball court can derail a budding athletic renaissance. A vibrant friend last month now walks with a cane. These shifts unfold not over decades, but within seasons.

And so, we must prepare to pivot. A pivot-ready life is not a life of compromise; it is a life of necessary adaptation. If overseas travel becomes too taxing, explore the treasures of your own region. Visit the botanical gardens or historical plantations you have driven past a hundred times. Attend a local play. Take a day trip to a nearby town and walk its streets with fresh eyes.

The danger of not pivoting is more than just facing boredom, it is the risk of existential drift. When plans collapse and no alternatives are there, the void through time feels heavy, suffocating. Time turns oppressive. The mind folds inward, not in reflection but in rumination. In retirement, depression often begins not with trauma, but with the quiet inertia of not knowing what to do that makes living interesting.

To live pivot-ready calls for planning, not in the sense of rigid schedules, but a flexible mindset attuned to change when circumstances shift. If pickleball slips beyond the reach of physical capability, perhaps bocce ball offers a gentler alternative. If the gym feels solitary or uninspiring, a walking group might bring both movement and companionship. And if physical activity begins to wane, it may be time to pivot toward cognitive engagement: reading, writing, joining a book club or a writer’s circle. The key is to remain open and be prepared.

This principle applies not just to daily activities but to the grand transition into retirement itself. Leaving a career is one of life’s most profound pivots. The structure, purpose, and social interaction that work provides must be replaced. A new routine must be built. A new meaning must be cultivated. New relationships must be nurtured if retirement comes with moving to a new location.

To pivot well is to anticipate the need for alternatives before the need arises. It is the wisdom of parking downhill when you know the road ahead may require a push. It is the foresight to stock mind’s pantry with ideas and interests one can follow.

This morning, after the drizzle had made its quiet claim on the court, I sat for a moment in disappointment. But then I remembered the gym. I changed clothes, walked over, and spent the next few hours moving, breathing, recalibrating. The disappointment dissolved. The day was not lost; it was reimagined.

To cultivate a pivot-ready life begins with reflection. What activities bring you joy? Which activities will become physically too demanding, and which will be cognitively nourishing? What social connections can be deepened, and what solitary practices can be embraced? Make a list, try things out. Rotate. Revisit. Keep the list handy and revise it often.

In the end, retirement is not a static phase. It is much more dynamic than we might have anticipated. It is a time of great freedom, yet, like all freedom, it comes with responsibility. The responsibility is to plan to stay active, pivot as necessary, and have fun.

And so, as I sip my tea tomorrow morning, I will look out at the sky not with expectation, but with alternatives in hand. If the court is dry, I will play. If it gets wet, I will pivot. Either way, the day will be mine.

And that, I have come to believe, is the essence of a well lived retirement life.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Lagrange Points Between Existence and Mortality: A Cosmic Metaphor for our Search for Meaning

 

Nirvana is not a escape from the forces that bind us but learning how to balance within their orbit.

Arun Kumar

Summary: Through the metaphor of the three-body problem in celestial mechanics, this essay explores the tension between existence and mortality. It relates the human search for meaning to a satellite seeking harmony at a Lagrange point where chaos gives way to quiet equilibrium.

In the realm of celestial mechanics, the three-body problem stands not only as a symbol of mathematical complexity but as a quiet metaphor for the human condition. When a smaller object drifts into the gravitational dance of two larger bodies like a satellite navigating the embrace of Earth and Moon, its path becomes erratic, exquisitely sensitive to the slightest perturbations. Its trajectory, unpredictable and ever shifting, echoes our search for meaning amid forces we barely comprehend.

What, then, are the two great masses that hold sway over our lives? They are existence and mortality — the unyielding truth that we are here, and the inescapable certainty that we will not always be. Around these two anchors, meaning, smaller, more fragile, spirals, tugged and turned in its orbit. It seeks balance in a field defined by tension between existence and mortality, where permanence feels elusive and stability is rare.

And yet, even within this celestial tumult, there are quiet sanctuaries: the Lagrange points — those delicate places where gravitational forces and orbital motion find harmony. In old texts, they are sometimes called “points of liberation.” Here, a satellite may hover in stillness, not because motion ceases, but because the chaos gives way to balance. Likewise, meaning, when aligned just so, can find rest and not slip through our fingers like dry sand, but held, whole and steady.

To seek our own Lagrange point is a life long pursuit. It is the journey toward Nirvana — not an escape from motion, but a release from entanglement. As a spacecraft may linger near Earth–Moon Lagrange points L₁ or L₂, suspended within a dynamic balance, so might we find stillness amid the turbulence of thought, memory, desire, and the flow of time. Nirvana is not the end of movement, but the end of being moved against our will.

In our quest, the cosmos offers a subtle parable: chaos is woven into the fabric of all that moves in relation to other things. But balance, however fleeting, is possible. Meaning may be the lightest of the three bodies, the most easily cast adrift, yet at the liberation points, it is anchored, enduring. And somewhere in that quiet arc between gravitational poise and inner peace, we may come to rest, not by escaping what holds us, but by learning how to dwell within its embrace.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Existence, Mortality, Meaning, and Search for Inner Lagrange Points

We exist in tension between being and not-being, and meaning is the thread we weave between the two.

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

Summary: In a universe devoid of inherent meaning, human consciousness must reconcile the tension between existence and mortality by creating purpose. Drawing on celestial mechanics, the essay likens this quest to the chaotic three-body problem and proposes that life’s grace may lie in finding evolving points of inner equilibrium — our personal Lagrange points.

One of the privileges afforded by consciousness is awareness not only of our existence but also of our eventual end. Unlike the stars or the distant galaxies that seem indifferent to their being (at least that is what I think), we carry the burden, or the gift, of knowing that we exist, that we are, and that one day, we will not be.

Awareness of our existence and of our mortality brings them into an ongoing conflict. As part of that conflict, mortality can play strange games with existence. The cognition of mortality and its influence on existence could be like being pursued by a Dementor from myth — a formless, soul-sucking floating shadow that siphons not just joy but the very will to exist, especially if we do not have a meaning and purpose for our existence to protect against it.

Without a reason, a purpose, a meaning, a story to tell ourselves, even the lightest tasks can feel weighted, and the most beautiful mornings can get colored gray. Meaning and purpose are the scaffolding that allow us to build a portfolio of engagements to put vitality back into our existence. They allow us to believe and be immersed in our actions. They allow us to look forward to getting out of bed the next morning.

When the meaning behind our actions is clear to us, it brings a spring to our steps — a quiet vitality that can animate even the mundane. Meaning becomes both weapon and shield, an anti-Dementor force that infuses our existence with purpose and vivifies our moments.

But there is a slight problem: the universe does not offer us meaning. In fact, it may have none for itself. At birth, we are not handed a manual outlining our purpose or a blueprint for fulfillment. It is we who must craft meaning. And like all things made by human hands, it is vulnerable — it can fracture.

Meaning and purpose, then, are not fixed monuments but flickering flames. The universe, in its vast and silent indifference, is always testing the stability of the meanings we construct. Tragedy, monotony, boredom, or even a quiet flicker of doubt, can send fractures through our once-sturdy scaffolding. When it crumbles, we find ourselves standing amid the debris, exposed once more to conflict between mortality and existence. We must once again tend to build meaning and purpose, knowing they may falter yet again.

And so, the task begins anew: to rebuild, to reinterpret, to weave a fresh, and perhaps more resilient, meaning from the threads of experience from the past.

Thus starts the dance — delicate, elusive, and ever-shifting. It is the intricate choreography between three pillars of life: existence, mortality, and meaning. Existence is our presence in this world, moment by moment. Mortality is the knowledge that this presence is time-bound, finite. Meaning is the attempt to reconcile the two opposites, to bring them in harmony, to make them live in peace.

This triadic tension evokes a problem as old as Newtonian physics and as unsolvable as certain aspects of the cosmos itself — the three-body problem.

In celestial mechanics, the three-body problem involves predicting the motions of three massive bodies — such as stars, moons, or planets — under their mutual gravitational influence. While solving the two-body problem (like Earth and the Sun) yields elegant, closed-form orbits, adding a third body introduces complexity so great that no general solution exists. The bodies dance in chaotic, non-repeating orbits, their fates interlocked yet unpredictable.

How fitting a metaphor this becomes for our own triad. The dance between existence, mortality and meaning whirls between the two, sometimes harmonizing them, sometimes lost in their turbulence. The push and pull between existence and mortality is never fully resolved. We move through life, drawn by invisible forces we barely comprehend.

And yet, in the vast theater of the cosmos, even chaos sometimes finds pockets of grace. Enter the concept of the Lagrange points — named after the French-Italian mathematician Joseph-Louis Lagrange — five specific locations in space where a small object (like ‘meaning’) affected only by gravity can maintain a stable position relative to two larger bodies (existence and mortality).

In the Earth-Sun system, for instance, a satellite placed at one of these Lagrange points can “hover” in a fixed configuration with respect to Earth and the Sun. These points arise where the gravitational pulls of the two massive bodies and the centrifugal force balance perfectly. A harmonious equilibrium within motion.

But not all Lagrange points are equal. Lagrange Points L4 and L5 form equilateral triangles with the two large bodies and are stable — if an object drifts slightly, it oscillates gently back into place. These are like bowls in space: perturbations cause motion, but gravity returns the object to equilibrium.

Points L1, L2, and L3, however, are unstable. They are more like pencil tips — perfect balance is possible, but the slightest nudge sends the object tumbling.

Perhaps then, our quest is not about fully solving our personal three-body problem but about finding our Lagrange point within it — that rare and precious place of inner alignment. It is the point where our existence and our awareness of mortality, because of our chosen meaning, co-exist not in tension but in harmony.

To find those Lagrange points, particularly the stable ones, is perhaps to find Nirvana — a mental and spiritual condition of poise, detachment, and luminous peace. It is not an escape from the tension between mortality and existence, but a sublime positioning within it. Finding our Lagrange point, we are no longer dragged unpredictably between joy and despair. We orbit with calm awareness, we act with clarity, and we accept the finite nature of our existence with grace.

The quest for such a point is not linear, and certainly not permanent. The relative size of existence and mortality, and their gravitational fields change with age, with transitions, with experience, with loss etc. As we age, the cognizance of mortality gets larger. What was a stable Lagrange point at thirty may grow unstable at sixty. What gave meaning in youth may collapse when we get older. Transitions — retirement, bereavement, illness — are like cosmic perturbations. They nudge the location of our former Lagrange point, and we begin to drift, in search for balance again.

But perhaps the true mastery of life is not in staying fixed at one equilibrium, but in learning how to navigate evolving dynamics and stay with evolving Lagrange points, adjusting to each new configuration of forces as they change. With each collapse of meaning, we learn a little bit more about the engineering of constructing better scaffolding.

In youth, we might be good with residing in unstable Lagrange points — passion, ambition, and strength drive us into orbits far from the equilibrium. But as we age, we may begin to seek out the more stable Lagrange points, where small disturbances do not throw us into chaos but invite us gently back to stillness. We long for simplicity, for inner peace, for a meaning that no longer needs constant rebuilding but becomes an anchor.

And this is the quiet miracle of it all: that even in a meaningless universe, meaning can be created — not found, not discovered, but built, over and over again, like a lighthouse on shifting shores. We are the builders and the alchemist.

So let us keep dancing this intricate three-body ballet. Let us continue constructing and reconstructing the scaffolding of meaning. Let us accept the chaos, embrace the collapse, and seek again the stillness within motion. For somewhere in this vast cosmic play, each of us may yet find our own Lagrange point — a sacred equilibrium between existence, mortality, and the meaning that calms the tension between them.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Confronting the Left Tail of Frequency Distributions in Life

 

Things fall apart. Not because they are flawed, but because they exist

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

Summary: When a wine cooler broke unexpectedly, it became a lens through which to reflect on the impermanence of all things. It was a reminder that from appliances to human existence, life expectancy follows probabilistic curves, and we do not quite know when something will stop functioning. This essay explores the emotional asymmetry we encounter when luck fails us, and we find ourselves holding a card drawn from the left tail of the distribution.

The Universe Doesn’t Owe Us Durability

The universe is ruled by impermanence. Everything is in flux. From galaxies down to the incessant ticking of kitchen clocks, all things are in motion — changing, evolving, decaying, dying. The stars are subject to this law: born from the gravitational collapse of gas clouds, they blaze with nuclear fire for millions or billions of years, fighting the very force that gave them birth — gravity, until the fuel of their alchemy runs dry. Then, surrendering to gravity once again, they collapse into white dwarfs, or neutron stars, or black holes. That which begins must inevitably end.

So too with us. We are born, pass through childhood, climb into the vigor of youth, and, if fortune favors us, step slowly into old age. Somewhere along that arc, we sometimes sense ephemeral moments of connection to others, to meaning, to the vastness of the universe. We strive to feel content, to feel aligned, even as we sense the impermanence that cradles all we know. And yet, despite this deep and constant rhythm of change, and us being aware of it, we are often startled when something breaks.

Take, for instance, our wine cooler. It stopped working the other week — eighteen months after we bought it. A trivial event, perhaps. An appliance gone dead. One day it was bound to happen. But my reaction wasn’t trivial. Irrationally, I felt betrayed. A small current of fury and disappointment welled up. For no good reason, I was convinced: this thing had broken too soon. It broke before I got my money’s worth.

Why the feeling? I don’t know the statistical distribution of lifespans for the brand of wine cooler we chose. I never researched the failure rates (such statistics are hard to come by in the first place) or asked how many months of faithful service one could reasonably expect. Yet I carried inside me an assumption that my experience fell on the left tail of the distribution.

When Life Falls on the Left Tail

In statistics, when we speak of the “left tail” of a distribution (for example normal or Gaussian) distribution, we refer to those rare events that fall well below the average. If the average lifespan of a wine cooler is, say, five years, then an eighteen-month failure would land far to the left of the bell curve — an unfortunate outlier; a black swan. And when we end up in the left tail of an experience, whether it’s an appliance breaking, or a car accident, or a bad medical diagnosis, we often feel personally slighted. Cheated, even. Not just by the manufacturer, or the system, but by luck itself. The question we inevitably ask, why us?

Strangely, this asymmetry doesn’t cut both ways. When things go unexpectedly well — when the car runs smoothly for 20 years, or we enjoy unusually robust health deep into our 90s — we seldom feel the same intensity of emotion. There may be gratitude, yes, but rarely outrage at the universe’s unfair generosity. The emotional tilt is clear: the left tail stings, while the right tail quietly slips by, often unremarked.

This asymmetry in feeling may stem from how we view fairness, especially where money is involved. Money, after all, is hard-won. It represents time, effort, maybe sacrifice (for most of us, something spent here must be balanced by pinching there). When we spend it, particularly on something tangible, a refrigerator, a wine cooler, we subconsciously expect a certain return. Not just utility, but durability. When the object fails us “too soon,” it isn’t just an inconvenience; it feels like a violation of that unspoken contract with the universe.

What is “Okay”?

But here’s the strange thing: I don’t even know what “ok” would have been. Would I have felt satisfied if the cooler had lasted three years? Five? I have no internal compass for this. All I know is that eighteen months wasn’t enough. Period. And that vague dissatisfaction, I suspect, is partly because I had to pay money to replace it. Impermanence, when it comes with a price tag, seems like a double whammy.

Still, I forget — again and again — that things break. That everything breaks. The material world is governed by entropy. Disorder accumulates. Springs wear out, compressors stall, plastics crack. And yet, every time something I own becomes a ghost, I am caught off guard. We know that nothing lasts forever, but somewhere deep within, we act as if the things we buy have a moral obligation to do so.

Confronting the Truth That Things Break

Maybe that is why the cooler’s death irritated me so much — it forced me to confront a universal truth. One that applies not just to wine coolers, but to friendships, careers, our own bodies. Things fall apart. Not because they are flawed, but because they exist. Perhaps the greater surprise would be if they didn’t.

I find myself wishing that each product came with a little probability distribution chart printed on its packaging. Expected lifespan: mean = 4.2 years, σ = 1.1 years. 10% chance of failure within 2 years. If we knew the PDF — the probability density function — of an item’s life expectancy, maybe we could calibrate our expectations better. Then when something failed early, we’d know: this was a one-in-ten-year event. Not betrayal. Just bad luck. But such a world is not going to exist.

But even if that information was available, would it truly help? Or would we still feel bruised when randomness worked against us?

This all seems absurdly philosophical for a malfunctioning appliance. But perhaps small instances like that are an invitation to reflect. Each break, each crack in the surface of space and time, reminds us that everything we touch, everything we use is temporary. The lesson is to recognize the fragility and value of things while they still work.

A New Cooler a New Mindset

So, the wine cooler was gone. We bought a new one. This time, I’m trying something different: If it serves us for years, we’ll quietly appreciate the stretch of good luck. And if it breaks early, perhaps I’ll remember this moment, and say: Ah. This is just the left tail. Perhaps on average, event falling on left and right tails average out (if they were random, they would).

Life, too, has its own distribution. Some of us will experience long spans of health, wealth, and companionship. Others will meet misfortunes early. Most will fall somewhere in the wide middle. But wherever we land, it helps to remember that the curve is impersonal. The universe isn’t singling us out. The universe is not vindictive. It is simply unfolding without an end in mind.

And maybe, just maybe, being aware of this can make us a little more generous — with our expectations, our money, and with our sentiments towards broken machines.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

Discretionary vs. Non-Discretionary Time and Dilemma of Choices

A surplus of time — time affluence — isn’t always a gift; it is also an obligation to decide wisely.

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI

Summary: A day consists of discretionary (DT) and non-discretionary (NDT) time. NDT covers essential tasks like work and maintaining hygiene, while DT offers freedom of choices. Deciding among choices for activities to fill DT, however, is not trivial. Evolution pushes us toward ease and can be a considerable influence on what we choose. Psychological traits like growth vs fixed mindset also play their role. A big philosophical question is whether some choices are better than others, and if so, why?

A single day is the fundamental unit of time that, when repeated and summed, shapes the arc of our lives. The way we choose to spend our available hours each day defines our existence — and perhaps, in the end, influences the words spoken in our eulogy.

Each day’s time can be divided into two distinct categories or boxes: discretionary time (DT) and non-discretionary time (NDT). Together, these boxes encompass our waking hours, typically ranging between 15 to 17 hours. What fills these boxes depends on how we prioritize our portfolio of engagements (PoE) — the collection of tasks, responsibilities, and pursuits that fill hours in the day.

Understanding and exploring how we allocate time between these two boxes, and what belongs in each, is an insightful and often enjoyable exercise, providing a meaningful audit of how we structure our days. In the end, this reflection can pull us out of autopilot, prompting us to question the value and meaning of our engagements and adjust our activities to better align with our current and evolving priorities and the sense of self.

The Non-Discretionary Time Box

The NDT box includes activities that are necessary for maintaining biological and social functionality. Eating is essential, as is working — unless, of course, one has the privilege of a substantial trust fund that removes the necessity of earning a living. Other routine activities, such as showering, cleaning dishes, shaving, and laundering clothes, fall into this category.

However, the size of this box and what remains in it depends on individual choices, conscientiousness, and financial means. A person might decide to grow a beard, eliminating the need to shave; shower infrequently, recognizing that daily showers are a luxury unavailable to much of the world’s population; wash dishes only when absolutely necessary; or wear clothes for an extended period before laundering them. These decisions reflect personal attitudes, preferences, and priorities, shaping how one manages life.

Financial standing plays a significant role in determining what stays in the NDT box. The ability to outsource routine tasks — by hiring a cleaner, a cook, or a concierge — allows certain engagements typically deemed necessary to be removed from this box, freeing up more time.

Once we determine the extent of our non-discretionary time outlay, we arrive at time that is left, i.e., the outlay of time in the DT box. What we do with the time in the DT box is entirely within our control. That freedom, however, comes with the burden of making choices and effectively moving time from the NDT to the DT box.

The Discretionary Time Box

What we do with DT is determined by personal priorities, interests, and motivations. It is with this time that we decide which pursuits are worthy of our attention. However, making decisions about activities in the DT box is not always straightforward or easy. One particular psychological tendency often lures us off course — the inclination to choose the path of least resistance, favoring ease and convenience over effort, intentionality, and agency.

The Evolutionary Trap: The Path of Least Resistance

Human beings have an innate tendency to opt for convenience, choosing activities that require minimal effort. This inclination, rooted in evolutionary survival mechanisms, has long been advantageous for survival and reproduction. Throughout evolutionary history, conserving energy meant avoiding unnecessary exertion, ensuring survival in a world of scarce resources. Our ancestors, faced with the need to hunt and gather (definitely not an easy task), implicitly knew that expending energy recklessly could result in failure, exhaustion, or even death (cognizant or not, natural selection will steer you towards such traits).

Even today, this evolutionary trait continues to shape our daily lives. Choosing to relax rather than exercise, procrastinating on personal development, or scrolling through social media instead of reading a book — all reflect our inclination for low-effort engagements. We are born cognitive misers.

While this mindset once benefited survival, in modern society, it can function as a barrier to self-progress, self-improvement, and pursuing meaningful achievements. Although important, the tendency to choose the path of least action, however, is not the only factor influencing choices we make.

Growth Mindset vs. Fixed Mindset

What choices we make for the DT available to us also depends on psychological makeup. People with a growth mindset embrace challenges, strive for development, and seek knowledge continuously. They view time affluence as an opportunity to acquire skills, explore new passions, and refine their abilities.

Conversely, those with a fixed mindset tend to resist change. They may believe their capabilities are static, leading them to avoid challenges or new experiences. This psychological distinction significantly affects time allocation — whether one chooses to invest DT for learning, creativity, and personal growth or prefers routine activities that maintain comfort.

Growth Mindset vs. “Content With Relaxing” Retirees

A particularly interesting example of choice emerges when considering growth-oriented retirees versus retirees who adopt a more laissez-faire approach. While some retirees seize their newfound time affluence after retirement to travel, explore new hobbies, and reinvent themselves, others — whom we can call “content relaxers” — find fulfillment in slowing down. These individuals may prefer watching TV, golfing, engaging in leisurely activities, and soaking in the comforts of routine, rather than chasing new experiences.

Perhaps, both choices are equally valid — what matters is whether the individual finds contentment in their decision and is at ease with them. There is no absolute measure to determine which way of making choices is better or worse (for that matter, our predispositions may not even allow for making choices against our innate nature). A measure for the right choices for activities could be a fulfillment they bring to us, which is a personal matter rather than external validation.

If a person feels secure in their choices, without regret or longing for alternatives, their approach to DT is perfectly legitimate.

Time Allocation During Life Transitions

Time allocation between DT and NDT boxes can fluctuate during life transitions. Major transitions such as retirement, career changes, or family matters, alter the distribution of time between DT and NDT.

When retiring, the size of DT box expands leading to time affluence. Without an anticipated or planned structure, this sudden increase in discretionary hours can become a slippery slope, resulting in a feeling of stagnation or lack of fulfillment. Some retirees struggle with too much free time, finding themselves adrift, uncertain of how to allocate their newfound hours meaningfully. Nearing the end of life and realizing the prospect of mortality, engaging in activities for their own sake is a double whammy. Those who plan in advance, however, do manage to redirect their time toward personal growth, leisure, or social engagement.

Parting Thoughts

In the end, time allocation is deeply personal. Whether an individual fills the DT box with intellectual exploration or chooses relaxation, there are no absolute metrics for determining which is inherently better. What matters most is contentment — if a person feels secure in their choices, without regret or dissatisfaction, then they are on solid ground.

As life transitions alter the balance between DT and NDT boxes, it is crucial to anticipate these changes, plan strategically, and adapt accordingly. No matter how circumstances change, one constant remains: our ability to engage with our available time in meaningful ways, using our choices to shape our lives in alignment with our aspirations and priorities.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.

A Note: The urge for this post started with my reflections on how the choices we make for the activities for the DT box intersect with a myriad of thought-provoking questions that generations of philosophers have dwelled upon. Are some choices inherently better than others — and if so, why? Do absolute metrics exist that allow choices we make to be measured and judged objectively?

Is learning a new skill, even without the intention to monetize it, more valuable than opting for the path of least resistance — one that television and the internet have perfected, offering unlimited content that seems endlessly novel? Is volunteering for a just cause a superior choice compared to other non-pursuits? How does the personal temperament we are born with, such as a growth mindset versus a fixed mindset, influence our choice of activities? Could legacy — the signature we leave behind — serve as a meaningful metric for choices we make? Or, in the end, are all choices equal, as long as we can look back on our lives without regret for paths we chose not to explore?

How about the role of inequalities (e.g., financial, or cognitive) in our ability to make choices. Having DT itself is a luxury of sorts that many do not have. For those who have the privilege to have this luxury, is the burden of the responsibility of making (right) choices higher? But then, we circle back again to pondering what is ‘right’?

In the end, all roads come down to the same question — is there a way to judge if some choices we make are better than others? This is what has kept philosophers busy since the dawn of civilization. And we continue on the same quest.

Falling in the Sinkhole (of Existential Despair)

 

It is those who walk, gazing at the sky and pondering the meaning of the stars, who find themselves stumbling into the sinkhole of existential despair

Arun Kumar

Arun Kumar + AI: A Man Falling into a Sinkhole While Looking at Stars

Summary: Existential angst has a better chance to arise when basic survival concerns subside, allowing for mental space for reflection on life’s deeper questions. It is an easier ailment to have amidst affluence, a privilege that allow for introspection but remains rare in survival-focused lives. Modern distractions also suppress existential inquiry, while moments of cosmic wonder, awareness of mortality, and life transitions can elicit contemplations of purpose and meaning of existence.

Have you ever wondered why some individuals wrestle with existential angst, seeking purpose and meaning in their lives, while others seem untouched by such concerns and effortlessly embracing a happy-go-lucky existence where existential despair is unlikely to surface? The answer to this intriguing puzzle might lie in the nature of existential angst itself: it is a reflective state that emerges from the unique convergence of life’s circumstances.

One explanation for this dichotomy between those who experience existential angst and those who do not is that a necessary condition for existential angst may be having a minimal level of affluence.

When individuals are consumed by the immediate demands of survival, whether it’s finding their next meal or enduring the relentless challenges of subsistence living, there is little mind space for existential questioning. The mind remains preoccupied with urgent concerns like shelter, sustenance, and survival. In such circumstances, existential angst is a luxury to have, and pursuit of purpose is secondary to the pressing realities of life’s practical challenges

Conversely, existential angst finds fertile ground in those fortunate enough to rise above the immediate demands of survival. Once basic needs are fulfilled, the mental space previously consumed by survival is liberated for introspection. In these moments of quiet reflection, the seeds of existential inquiry (and despair) can take root and flourish. A full belly, a secure home, and a stable routine pave the way for pondering the nature of existence, the mysteries of the cosmos, and one’s place within it.

Even among those who possess mental space for existential angst to take root, modern life provides an abundance of distractions

For instance, individuals may become ensnared in the relentless ‘rat race,’ consumed by the pursuit of professional success or the demands of maintaining a high-profile lifestyle, leaving little mental space for contemplating their place in the world.

Existential angst must also contend with the human tendency to favor the path of least resistance. In an age defined by technology and an endless array of entertainment, individuals have unparalleled tools to divert themselves from the practice of introspection. Activities like doom scrolling through social media, binge-watching TV shows, or mindlessly consuming online content offer effortless escapes from grappling with life’s deeper questions. These readily accessible distractions fill the vacant mental spaces in our lives, keeping existential despair at a distance. Moments that might otherwise nurture reflection are instead absorbed by fleeting and superficial engagement.

For those with the mental space for introspection, gazing upward and marveling at the cosmic alchemy above becomes a powerful catalyst for existential reflection. The stars — radiant reminders of the universe’s vastness and our own relative insignificance — can inspire a sense of wonder and existential inquiry. This glimpse of the cosmos’ grandeur compels individuals to confront questions of purpose, meaning, and their connection to the universe at large.

When mental space allows, other triggers of existential angst may also emerge. These include an awareness of our mortality and the uncertainty of what lies beyond death, prompting us to question the meaning of our finitude. Additionally, transitional moments — when one phase of life ends and the next remains unclear — can easily stir existential reflection.

The embrace of existential angst is, therefore, a phenomenon intertwined with circumstance. For some, the immediate demands of life leave no space for such reflections. For others, privileges provide mental freedom and an opportunity to explore the questions of existence.

The irony lies in the fact that it is only when one has the luxury to gaze at the stars and ponder the meaning of existence that one risks slipping into the sinkhole of existential despair. Conversely, when life is compelled or chooses to focus on the ground — whether to secure the next meal, maintain an extravagant lifestyle, or succumb to the path of least resistance — existential despair is kept at bay.

Ciao, and thanks for reading.