Does shooting film make you confront your own existence?

I’ve been chewing on existentialism lately and it keeps looping back to my darkroom. Every time I pull a sheet of black‑and‑white out of the developer, I’m reminded of Sartre’s idea that we’re ‘condemned to be free’ – the film is a blank slate, but the moment you decide to expose it you’re forcing meaning onto randomness.

Is a photograph just a frozen accident, or does the act of framing give it purpose? When I look at a roll of images after a shoot, I see more than just scenes – I see the little choices that defined who I was that day: which angle, which light, which moment I felt brave enough to capture. It feels like a tiny rebellion against the absurd, a way to say “I was here, I saw this, and I gave it a name.”

I’m curious: do any of you feel that the ritual of loading, clicking, and developing forces you to reckon with the “nothingness” between shots? Does your camera become a philosophical tool, or am I just overthinking a hobby?