The Kebilsphere

I am trying to come to terms with my existential angst, what Sartre called Nausea

And I what I need to explain myself is not more words but less

Perhaps a precise picture of the problem which is my puzzle
(How is that for alliteration)

Maybe the answer to the meaning of existence
Is that we are here to question our essence

That is, we are the answer searching for the question

Or, to put it in proper solipsist terms
I am the answer to the question

Existence precedes essence, and
“man has no predefined purpose or meaning”