Nietzsche called Dostoyevsky “the only psychologist from whom I have anything to learn.” And it shows. Long before Existentialism had a label, Dostoyevsky was digging tunnels into the darkness of the human soul — where freedom and suffering, pride and pity, God and evil clash like iron gates at midnight.
He gives us the Underground Man: conflicted, raw, licking his wounds like a rat in a cellar. He shows us how we sabotage ourselves — replaying slights, dreaming of revenge, locking ourselves behind walls built for safety.
Yet through the gloom, Dostoyevsky whispers: “There’s something more.”
Camus called it “Absurdism” — the collision of a senseless world with a heart that craves meaning.
Kierkegaard called it “the leap” — faith when reason fails at the cliff’s edge.
I know this tension.
Life is absurd. Chaotic. Unfair. Silent.
Suffering rattles my faith like a stone against stained glass.
And yet I ask: “To whom shall I go?”
I am finite. Three pounds of grey matter grasping at the Infinite.
If I could contain God in my skull, I’d be God — but I’m not.
So I trust anyway.
Despite the tension.
Despite the silence.
Despite the cellar’s cold creeping into my bones.
Some call it cold comfort.
But I ask: Would despair taste sweeter?
Would loneliness warm me better than this fragile hope?
No.
I’d rather wrestle God in the dark than sing anthems to emptiness.
I’d rather crawl toward the Table set for me — the one that doesn’t humiliate.
Toward the Friend who offers not shallow toasts, but His own blood for my dignity.
This is the paradox I carry:
Absurdity and grace.
Doubt and hope.
Cracks in my cellar walls — and the Light that slips through anyway.
When the world screams nonsense...
When I am nonsense...
He remains the final Word.
