Existential angst is a stage, albeit I wince calling it so. It's time of passage in which for the first time one ponders the meaning of oneself and others, when for the first time, one is thrown great philosophical questions. One wonders why we are here, and what is one's purpose, if any at all.
Exploring ancestor's wisdom, one's own mind, or the opinions of our friends and family, one becomes a seeker. Hundreds of golden trinkets lie glittering on a golden path, all claiming to be the panacea, whether it be nihilism, solipsism, religion, atheism, tao, or stoicism to name a few. As one explores each and every area, one comes to a conflict of the mind, unable to discern the one truth, the only truth. The seeker flees to a safe haven, reveling in the thing one thinks one can be sure of, the self.
One realizes after a point, that one can't even be sure of the self; one's perceptions are subject to reality or vice versa. There is no sanctuary or area of comfort once one is aware of this fact. Clawing for refuge, one asks a question, only to realize a greater question, only to realize an even greater one, ad infinitum. The interrogation is seemingly endless; there is always another question. Finally one realizes that the questions are routine, normal, a point of reference, a protected dwelling. The angst is accepted with equanimity, and becomes a source of pleasure.
Someone should trounce this writeup. | 
