Desolate Night Talks

Chapter 2: “Condemned to Freedom”

The night was heavy, and the faint glow of streetlights seeped through the window. The female student sat in the apartment’s living room, her fingertips trembling slightly as the warmth of the teacup in her hands gradually faded. Across from her, the man remained silent, his expression blank as he gazed at her. It was as though all her worries and struggles were nothing more than fleeting shadows in his eyes. The air in the room was stifling, an invisible weight that slowly pressed into her chest.

“I’ve been wondering,” she began in a low voice, her tone weary and resigned, as though speaking both to him and herself, “why do people live?”

The man lifted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. This question seemed neither unfamiliar nor troubling to him. If anything, he appeared to have long transcended such confusion. Setting his teacup down gently, he regarded her with a deep, faintly mocking, and indifferent gaze.

“Have you heard of Freud’s theories?” he asked slowly, his tone calm and detached.

She nodded. In her university psychology classes, she had studied Freud’s ideas—the id, ego, and superego—and the role of the unconscious in shaping human behavior. But to her, those concepts were nothing more than abstract theories, incapable of filling the emptiness in her heart.

“Freud believed that our actions, and even our thoughts, are driven by the unconscious—the hidden desires that control us from deep within,” the man continued, his voice carrying a quiet, analytical clarity. “Whether it’s the desire for s*x, the pursuit of power, or the need for security, these all stem from the id—our most primal impulses, unrestrained by morality or reason.”

She frowned slightly, a wave of discomfort washing over her. “So, everything we do is just the product of our desires?” she asked, her voice tinged with resistance.

“Perhaps,” he replied with a shrug, unconcerned whether she accepted his answer. “Freud posited that the ego and superego exist to suppress these primal impulses, allowing us to function in society. But those desires buried deep in the unconscious don’t disappear; they remain suppressed, transformed into an invisible force that governs our behavior.”

A chill crept over her, as though she were caught in the grip of an unseen force. “If that’s true, then what’s the point of living? If everything is controlled by desire, what freedom do we even have?”

The man offered a faint smile, one laced with both irony and pity. “Perhaps we don’t have true freedom at all,” he replied softly. “This is the existential anxiety Sartre described as ‘the absurdity of existence.’ We’re thrown into this world, only to realize there’s no ultimate purpose, no inherent meaning. We’re forced to create meaning for ourselves, only to discover that all meaning is man-made.”

She fell into deep thought. Suddenly, she understood the source of her pervasive sense of emptiness—a profound existential crisis. She had been trying to find some stable foundation in life, some meaning to anchor her existence. Yet every time she seemed close to grasping that meaning, it slipped away like sand through her fingers, dissolving into nothingness.

“Sartre said, ‘Man is condemned to be free,’” the man continued, his voice low and magnetic. “This freedom isn’t something we desire; it’s imposed on us. Because we have no choice, we must decide for ourselves what life means. And this absolute freedom plunges us into unprecedented loneliness and fear.”

“So, we’re destined to face this loneliness?” she murmured, her eyes betraying an unshakable bewilderment.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone devoid of comfort. “We are solitary beings. Each of us must struggle in this absurd world to find our own meaning. As Freud said, we are driven by desires that can never truly be satisfied. And Sartre reminds us that even in the absence of ultimate meaning, we are still responsible for our existence, for creating our own values.”

A deep sense of despair washed over her, as though her soul had been torn apart. She looked at him, hoping for a shred of solace or release. Yet his gaze held only detachment, as if he had fully embraced the futility of it all.

“How do you go on living?” she asked quietly, her voice tinged with helplessness.

The corners of his mouth lifted in a faint, bitter smile. “By becoming numb,” he replied softly. “I once sought meaning, too. But when I saw through the absurdity of it all, I had no choice but to compromise. Work became a tool for escape, and life turned into a routine. As you can see, I’m just a mediocre cog in this cold machine.”

She sat in silence, gazing at him with a growing sense of weariness and futility. She had thought he was the one person who could understand her, the one who could offer her a fragment of warmth in this barren world. But she now realized he was just another soul trapped in the same void—lonely, powerless, and long since stripped of any will to pursue meaning.

The night grew darker, and the air carried an indescribable heaviness. Their conversation gradually faded, giving way to a wordless silence. The female student leaned back against the sofa, closing her eyes. Her mind swirled with thoughts of Freud’s unconscious, Sartre’s absurdity, and the inescapable reality of it all.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.