Dancing in the Absurd
The tender, ridiculous ways we prove to ourselves that life matters
“If you look at anything long enough, it becomes ridiculous.” — Friedrich Dürrenmatt
There’s a strange beauty in watching people jump up and down in sync under strobe lights.
Maybe it’s the beat. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the ancient, unspoken agreement that says: this is fun, this is connection, this is what we do when the music hits just right.
But if you zoom out (just a little), you start to see it differently.
Not mockingly. Just... curiously.
I had one of those zoomed-out moments, surrounded by sweaty strangers in a club in Mykonos. Everyone was bouncing like atoms in a joy machine. Hands in the air. Eyes closed. The DJ wasn’t saving lives, but the crowd was reacting like he was performing surgery on our collective soul.
And I thought, We really are a funny species.
We do this all the time.
We take a simple act (like moving our bodies to a repetitive rhythm) and imbue it with all kinds of meaning.
Connection. Celebration. Transcendence.
And it works.
It works because we agree it works. Just like we agree that getting a ball into a net is worth screaming for, crying over, or tattooing onto our bodies.
Zoom out at a soccer match and you’ll see it too.
Grown men praying to the gods of penalty kicks. Entire nations gasping in unison over whether a ball crosses a line. Flags become symbols. Wins become redemption. And losses, grief. Real grief.
Over a ball.
And yet, I love it.
Not despite its absurdity, but because of it.
It’s not judgment. It’s not satire.
It’s more like... awe.
An affectionate look at the theater of being human.
The fact that we can find meaning in the mundane is one of our most beautiful traits.
We Clap. We Cry. We Queue.
Take clapping, for example.
On paper, it’s weird. A group of people smacking their hands together in unison to express approval. The louder the smacks, the greater the praise. That’s it. That’s the whole system.
And yet, stand in a theater when the curtain falls and a standing ovation begins, and tell me it doesn’t feel like something sacred just happened.
We clap because we care. Because we were moved. Because it’s our collective way of saying: You did something worth doing, and we all saw it and appreciate it,
But again, zoom out.
It’s not a biological necessity.
We invented it. Like so many other things.
Like candles on a cake.
Every year, we light tiny fires on top of sugar bread and sing an old song (badly) while the birthday person stares awkwardly at their dessert. Then they blow it out, and we clap again.
Why?
Because we decided it means something.
Because rituals make time visible.
They mark our place in the loop.
They give us a sense of rhythm in the chaos of life.
Or take queuing. Humans standing in a neat row, waiting patiently for coffee, concert tickets, or the latest iPad drop. There's no natural law that says we should take turns; plenty of species don’t. But we do. And when someone cuts in, it’s a moral offense.
The line, like so many things we do, is a quiet agreement that says: We’re all in this together. One at a time. No cheating.
Rational? Maybe.
Arbitrary? Yes.
Human? Absolutely.
These little moments, clapping, queuing, and blowing out candles, aren’t just habits.
They’re shared performances.
Small acts of belief.
They’re how we turn the ordinary into the meaningful.
And we do it everywhere.
The Ball and the Belief
Some rituals are quieter. Others come with drums and chants and tears and fireworks.
Enter: soccer.
There’s no need to explain the rules. You already know the game, whether you care or not. What matters isn’t the offside trap or possession stats.
What matters is what it means.
A team loses, and grown adults weep.
A team wins, and strangers hug.
People who have nothing else in common suddenly speak the same language, face paint, jerseys, chants that echo across generations.
It’s religion without the sermons.
Or maybe it is a religion, just with different songs.
Because when you look closely, the overlap is undeniable.
In both places, stadiums and sanctuaries, people gather. They dress a certain way. They chant. They rise and sit and kneel in rhythm. They hope. They suffer. They pray.
Sometimes to a god, sometimes to a referee.
And in both, the deeper meaning lives underneath the act itself.
It’s not just the ball.
It’s the longing for glory. The need to belong. The ache to be part of something bigger than our tiny selves.
Same with belief.
It’s not just about rules or stories.
It’s about stitching meaning into mystery.
About being able to say: This matters. Even when you can’t explain why.
But mystery isn’t limited to temples or touchdowns.
It’s in the way we light candles at vigils.
In how we whisper “make a wish” to children blowing out birthday flames.
It’s in the flags we wave, the silence we hold, the toasts we raise.
We’re not just doing things.
We’re saying something with them.
Even if the message is only visible from the inside.
Meaning, Made by Habit
Not every ritual looks like one.
Some don’t have music, candles, or a crowd.
Some are just... what we do.
The way we pause before a toast.
The way we lower our voices in elevators.
The way we say “How are you?” and don’t expect an honest answer.
We pass through dozens of these quiet scripts each day.
They’re not official. No one taught us. But we learn them anyway.
We know what to do with our hands in an interview.
We learn not to sit right next to someone in an empty movie theater.
We learn to say “I’m fine,” even when we’re not, because the context doesn’t allow for crumbling.
These are soft rituals.
Invisible agreements.
They hold things together in a way that’s easy to miss, until someone breaks them. Try not smiling back at a stranger who smiles at you. Try not clapping when everyone else does. Try leaving your camera on mute when you sing “Happy Birthday” over Zoom.
It feels wrong. Like you stepped out of sync with the dance.
And maybe that’s what rituals are:
Ways to feel in step, with each other, with the moment, with the story we think we’re in.
We don’t always know what we’re rehearsing.
But something in us longs for rhythm. For the comfort of repetition. For the illusion of control in a world where so much isn’t.
So we keep doing it.
We nod. We bow. We toast. We swipe.
We mark the moment.
We act as if it matters, and somehow, it does to us.
Why It Matters That It Matters
Maybe the point isn’t what the ritual is.
Maybe it’s that we’re the kind of creatures who need them.
We invent meaning the way spiders spin webs, constantly, instinctively, without waiting for permission.
We do it to celebrate.
To cope.
To connect.
We do it to feel like we’re part of something, even if that something is just the shared agreement that it matters.
A high-five.
A protest chant.
A Sunday dinner.
They’re not grand in themselves.
But inside them, quietly folded, is something else:
I’m here.
You’re here.
This is something.
And that’s not trivial.
Because life, when you strip it down to its raw material, can feel random, messy, even absurd.
The rituals we create are our way of saying:
We see the mess, and we’re going to dance anyway.
We don’t ignore the absurdity.
We choreograph it.
We light candles.
We raise flags.
We clap in unison.
Not because we have to.
But because we want to.
And maybe that’s what’s most endearing about being human:
We don’t just exist.
We insist on making it mean something. Even if it’s just jumping up and down in a sweaty club in Mykonos. Even if it’s just getting a ball into a net. Even if it’s just singing badly over cake.
We may never agree on politics or playlists, but we’ll keep gathering.
Keep clapping.
Keep assigning meaning to the weird and the ordinary.
Because it’s not just what we do.
It’s how we do being human.
So go ahead, light the candles.
Yell at the TV.
Raise a glass.
Jump up and down like it means something.
Because… it does.
Book Recommendation
The Art of Gathering by Priya Parker
This isn’t a manual for party planning. It’s a subtle reminder that every time we come together at a table, in a stadium, or in silence, we have a chance to shape meaning. Priya shows us how even the most ordinary gathering can become something sacred if we choose it to be.