We cling to explanations the way a child clings to a nightlight. It doesn’t matter if the explanation is scientifically accurate, philosophically sound, or even particularly logical. What matters is that it makes the darkness familiar. A world with reasons, even bad ones, is a world we can navigate.

Think about how quickly we construct narratives after unexpected events. The job fell through because of timing. The relationship ended because you were too different. The project failed because of circumstances beyond your control. These explanations may be incomplete or even wrong, but they comfort us because they impose order on chaos.

Camus describes what happens when these explanations fail: we feel like strangers in our own lives. The universe that once seemed to respond to our questions now sits silent. This is the birth of the absurd, that vertiginous moment when familiar ground gives way beneath us.

But notice what Camus doesn’t say: he doesn’t tell us to construct better illusions. Instead, he points toward a different kind of courage, the willingness to remain present in an unexplained world without immediately reaching for the nearest story to make it safe again.