Complaint (by Kierkegaard)

“One sticks one’s fingers into the soil to tell by the smell in what land one is:

 I stick my finger into existence – it smells of nothing. Where am I? 

How came I here? 

What is this thing called the world?

 What does this world mean? 

Who is it that has lured me into this thing and now leaves me there? … How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted? 

… but thrust into the ranks as though as I had been bought of a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality?

 Why should I have an interest in it?

 Is it not a voluntary concern? 

And if I am compelled to take part in it, where is the director?

 … Whither shall I turn with my complaint?”

Kierkegaard