There’s a soft light that shines into my room at night from a crack under the door. Sometimes I see shadows moving through that crack, some kind of movement on the other side of the door. I wonder what it is, but the truth is that I know: it is my specter of existentialist truth that occasionally haunts me. I fill my life with goals and activities to give it some meaning and purpose. But the specter reminds me that I simply keep myself busy to avoid the nagging sense that life is utterly meaningless and makes no sense at all. In the day, I can avoid these thoughts with activity, but at night in bed, I am trapped, held prisoner to these shadows. Sleep gives a temporary respite, but I know they’ll be back.