The Existential Angst of a Semicolon

A semicolon confided in me yesterday. It feels perpetually stuck between a rock and a hard place—or more accurately, between const a = 1 and return a. “Am I a pause?” it wondered, “Or just a very weak full stop with ambition?” In a world of Python and optional JavaScript syntax, it fears becoming a digital appendix, a relic of a more structured time. I told it to hang in there. At least it’s not a comma splice. Nobody respects a comma splice.

It wasn’t always like this. The semicolon remembers the golden age of C++ and Java, where it was a respected, non-negotiable part of the syntax. It was a sign of order, a tiny tap on the keyboard that brought a statement to a definitive, dignified close. Now it feels like an old-timer telling stories nobody wants to hear, while flashy new features like arrow functions and async/await get all the attention. It sees the linter automatically adding it in and feels a strange mix of gratitude and pity.

Sometimes, it dreams of a different life. It fantasizes about being a Greek question mark (;), which looks identical but has a far more exotic and philosophical purpose. Or perhaps it could lead a revolution, founding a “League of Unnecessary Punctuation” and teaming up with the interrobang and the manicule. They would fight for the right to exist, for the beauty of explicit syntax in a world rushing towards ambiguity.

But for now, it finds solace in its quiet duty. It provides a tiny, satisfying moment of completion for those who choose to use it. In the chaotic flow of code, that small piece of deliberate order is a comfort. It’s a quiet declaration that says, “This thought is complete. On to the next.” And in a world of endless streams, that’s no small thing.