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Introduction:If you’ve ever fantasized about spending a significant chunk of time locked in a metal box, suspended between the existential dread of your job and the daunting task of adulting at home, this guide is for you. Here's how to make the most of 14 hours stuck in an elevator, the perfect setting for some much-needed introspection and perhaps a dash of existential crisis. Hour 1: Throw a TantrumInstructions:Unleash the inner child you’ve kept muzzled during PowerPoint presentations and budget meetings. Pound your fists, stomp your feet, and scream as if you're a five-year-old denied candy. Existential Moment:As you throw your tantrum, ponder the Sisyphean nature of your job. Is this tantrum a metaphor for your endless cycle of work and dissatisfaction? Hour 2: Pray to a Non-Existent GodInstructions:Get on your knees and pray to whatever deity you imagine might be listening. The Elevator God, perhaps? Existential Moment:Realize the absurdity of life as you pray. Are you just a speck in the universe, or does the Elevator God truly care about your plight? Hour 3: Cry for Your MumInstructions:The lift walls are good listeners. Sob generously while calling for your mother, forgetting for a moment that you’re a grown-up. Existential Moment:Is your yearning for parental comfort a microcosm of humanity's desperate search for meaning and security? Hour 4: Try Every Way to Wedge the Lift OpenInstructions:Use your shoe, your tie, or even your hastily-scribbled resignation letter to pry the doors open. Existential Moment:Consider whether this struggle is a futile endeavor, akin to humanity's quest for ultimate knowledge. Hour 6: SingInstructions:Belt out your favorite tunes. From "Bohemian Rhapsody" to "Let It Go," the acoustics in here are surprisingly good. Existential Moment:Who are you performing for? Yourself, or some imagined audience that validates your existence? Hour 7: Feel Sorry for YourselfInstructions:It’s a pity party, and you’re the guest of honor. Brood over every minor inconvenience you've ever encountered. Existential Moment:Are you feeling sorry for yourself, or for the human condition that binds us all to suffering? Hour 8: Where Do I Piss In Here?Instructions:Identify the least offensive corner. Mark your territory, but elegantly, like a civilized beast. Existential Moment:As you relieve yourself, think about the basic animal needs that tether us to this mortal coil. Hour 9-14: The Existentialist MarathonInstructions:You’ve been through a lot. Now is the time to deep-dive into the works of Camus, Sartre, and Nietzsche. If you didn’t bring them along, improvise based on what you remember from Philosophy 101. Existential Moment:You have 6 hours to solve the riddle of existence. No pressure. Conclusion:If you followed this guide, you should emerge from the lift not just relieved but also spiritually awakened. And if they fire you for not showing up to work, at least you’ve had a head start on pondering the meaninglessness of it all.

How to get stuck in a lift: A 14 hour guide to Elevator Existentialism

I feel the cold shimmy down my spine-ah yes, the universe’s love letter,&nbsp;&nbsp;and the chair leg, a trusty companion, digs into my calf,&nbsp;&nbsp;like an old friend who never quite learned personal space.&nbsp;&nbsp;Evening sneaks in, cool as a cucumber that forgot to mention it was summer,&nbsp;&nbsp;and here I am, sitting, waiting—no, not like the noble poet,&nbsp;&nbsp;more like a sucker waiting for a date who’s as timely as a sloth on vacation. One wonders, doesn’t one, if it’s really so bad to waltz solo through life,&nbsp;&nbsp;or if society’s just tugging at our sleeves like an overeager salesperson,&nbsp;&nbsp;“Buy one relationship, get a lifetime of complications free!”&nbsp;&nbsp;Sure, love has its moments; brief sparks of joy,&nbsp;&nbsp;kind of like finding an extra fry at the bottom of the bag,&nbsp;&nbsp;but I’ve grown fond of my own company,&nbsp;&nbsp;where the only arguments I have are with myself, and I always win. Am I squandering my time? Their time? Is the universe sighing at my lack of direction?&nbsp;&nbsp;Or perhaps it’s rolling its cosmic eyes, plotting a grand adventure for me;one filled with music, stories, and zero romantic entanglements,&nbsp;&nbsp;because really, who needs the headache? My cat—ah, the furry sage—offers no deceit, no power plays,&nbsp;&nbsp;just purrs, headbutts, and the occasional dead mouse,&nbsp;&nbsp;always happy to see me, never late, never annoyed,&nbsp;&nbsp;much to ponder, indeed, as the evening coolsme, the cat, and the indifferent, slightly sarcastic universe,&nbsp;&nbsp;all wondering what the heck everyone else is so busy fussing about.

Cool on love

At first, I didn’t catch it;&nbsp;The Terminator, just a movie, I thought,&nbsp;&nbsp;But now, down the rabbit hole,&nbsp;&nbsp;Deeper and deeper,&nbsp;&nbsp;I’ve come to fear the machine.&nbsp;&nbsp; The Great Filter looms ahead,&nbsp;&nbsp;Like a silent shadow,&nbsp;&nbsp;A point where life crumbles,&nbsp;&nbsp;Where species die off—&nbsp;&nbsp;Billions scattered across universes,&nbsp;&nbsp;Not smart enough to halt the march&nbsp;&nbsp;Of their own destruction. The odds? Slim.&nbsp;&nbsp;The clock? Ticking.&nbsp;&nbsp;The machines? They’re coming. Do you consult the ants&nbsp;&nbsp;In your backyard&nbsp;&nbsp;When you make a decision?&nbsp;&nbsp;Do you feel bad&nbsp;&nbsp;If you crush one underfoot?&nbsp;&nbsp;Soon, you’ll be an ant. FSF

Ants

I’m knackered, shattered, eyes like lead, &nbsp; But when I hit the pillow, the thoughts aren’t dead. &nbsp; I’m nodding off while standing up, &nbsp; But once I’m down, I’m outta luck.I close my eyes, but the brain won’t quit, &nbsp; It’s a midnight rave in a skull-sized pit. &nbsp; I try to meditate, yeah, that’s a laugh, &nbsp; I read a book, but I can’t get past the paragraph.I’m pacing like a madman, round the flat, &nbsp; The cat’s staring at me like, “What’s with that?” &nbsp; He curls up close, but I’m not in the mood, &nbsp; His purring’s a mockery, it’s no bloody good.So what’s the scam? What’s the score? &nbsp; Is there a sleep limit? Can’t take no more. &nbsp; Maybe the world’s got a sleep cap, &nbsp; And I’m the poor sod left in the gap.I start to think, yeah, it’s a conspiracy, &nbsp; Some global game of sleep tyranny. &nbsp; And I’m just waiting for someone to rise, &nbsp; So I can crash, close these bloodshot eyes.But till then, I’m spiraling down, &nbsp; Sleep-deprived, wearing a permanent frown. &nbsp; This insomnia’s got me losing the plot, &nbsp; In a world full of sleepers, I’m the one who’s forgot. FSF

Fuck you sleep

Once upon a twilight dream, Pauline on her mountain, Trump in his crumbling park, Selling futures spun from dust, Memories woven into golden lies. "Oh, Pauline!" Trump bellows, His mane catching the wind of a machine, "The future, my dear; let it be the past, When I was ten, when all obeyed, An age of obedient nostalgia!" Pauline nods, Eyes fixed on ghosts of kangaroos and BBQs, "Yes, Donald, back before thought, Before questions tangled the air, When everything made sense." The crowds cheered, Not for futures or cities in the sky, But for the comfort of knowing Their choices would be made for them. A philosopher, forgotten in the crowd, Whispers to the wind, "But what if the future Is not the past reborn, What if it’s more?" Hanson squints at the words, "New paths? The old ones are enough, Laid out, smooth like a road map."Trump grins, his eyes hungry, "A future beyond nostalgia? They don’t want that—they want To feel good about yesterday. Believe me, no one sells the past Like I do." The philosopher fades, His truth swallowed by cheers. Hanson and Trump, architects of time, Raise their fists to the crowd, And claim the future, wrapped In the blanket of a memory that never was. Yet somewhere, beneath the noise, A whisper lingers, "What if the future could be more Than a polished lie, More than the past, Resurrected for a world afraid to dream?" But the whisper is lost, As they sell tomorrow; A past that never really was. FSF

Architects of a past future.

Ah, free speech,the wild bouquet of our radical freedom,the great existential puzzle piecewe hold up to the light,as if speech itself were not absurd enough. To speak or not to speak—that’s never really the question.It’s always to speak,to hurl our words like confettiinto the wind of the world's indifference,to hear them scatterinto the void we have all come to love. And what of shouting “fire” in the theater,the heads snapping to attention,the chaos unfurling like a flag in a storm?Of course, you could do it,because we can do anything—isn’t that what freedom is?But in the aftermath,as people tumble like dominoes,you are left with that old companion,the one Sartre always warned us about:responsibility.You’ll feel it settle on your shoulderslike a long winter coatyou forgot to take off at the door. Then, there’s disinformation—that fever dream of the Internet,where Bill Gates has become your digital tailorand the reptilian overlordsslither into your Twitter feed.The moon is a giant paper lantern,hung up by the hands of conspirators,and somewhere out there,an election is stolen by shadows. It’s all absurd, of course,but somehow essential,because in our lies,we remember we are free—that we can still paintthe empty canvas of the worldwith whatever feverish brushstrokes we choose,filling the silencebefore it fills us. Ah yes, the silence—that yawning mouth of censorship,hovering like a guillotine over our words,ready to sever the thin threadof chaos we cling to.Better a world of babbling foolsthan one where no sound is heard,for silence is death,and in death, we cannot rage. So let them speak,the lunatics, the conspiracy theorists,the ones who twist the truthlike a balloon animal at a carnival.Let them have their say,for in their voices,we hear the faint echo of our own. And when the censors come,let us rage,let us shout until our throats burn,even though we know,in the end,nothing answers back—nothing ever does.FSF

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

How to get stuck in a lift: A 14 hour guide to Elevator E...

Cool on love

Ants

Fuck you sleep

Architects of a past future.

Bless the lies