You Don't Need a Table to Eat

"Man is free the moment he wishes to be." — Voltaire

Existential comfort is like a table. Some people need a table to feel stable—to sit down, to eat, to feel like they have somewhere to place their plate. It gives them structure. Predictability. Something that already exists, something built for them so they don't have to think too hard. They just use it. It's familiar. It works. Or at least it works enough. Even if the table is wobbly, cracked, outdated—they'll keep using it. They'll convince themselves that it's still good, still serving its purpose, still worth depending on. They won't question it—not because they're incapable, but because they've never had to. The table was there before they were. It was passed down. It feels natural. Safer than building something new.

But some people don't need a table at all. Or maybe they do, but they build their own. They don't want something passed down, they want something that makes sense to them. They start from scratch. They figure out how to design a belief system, or a worldview, or a framework that actually reflects what they think and feel. That's hard. That takes effort. Most people don't know where to start. They don't have the tools. Or the time. Or they just can't be asked. So they keep using the old table—even if it barely holds up the plate. Even if it's so unstable it almost collapses every time they sit down. Still, they'll find ways to defend it. To justify it. Because they're not really defending the table. They're defending the comfort. The familiarity. The illusion of stability.

And then they project that onto others. They'll say, "You need a table to eat." Not really. You don't. You can eat on the floor. You can eat standing. You can eat on a rock, on your lap, or just carry the plate with you. The problem is that people aren't just obsessed with the idea of having a table; they're obsessed with having their table. They can't separate what works for them from what should work for everyone. So when someone else builds a new table—or doesn't use one at all—it's seen as wrong. Threatening. Not because it is, but because it exposes how fragile their own dependence is. It exposes the fact that they've never asked themselves if the table actually makes sense. If it's even needed.

People mistake personal comfort for universal truth. They turn convenience into dogma. They cling to structures that no longer serve them, then act like it's irrational not to. But not everyone needs a table to eat. Not everyone needs comfort to live. Some people are fine with uncertainty. Some people find structure limiting. Some people would rather sit on the floor with nothing than force themselves to use a shaky table just because everyone else does.

Comfort isn't bad. But it becomes dangerous when it masquerades as necessity. When it stops being a choice and becomes a cage. Most people aren't eating because of the table; they're staying at the table because they don't know how else to eat. And the moment someone leaves, or questions it, or flips it over, the others panic. Because if one person can eat without it, then maybe the table was never essential in the first place.

And that's the real discomfort: not losing the table, but realising you never needed it.