Life is interesting.
I don’t know whether it has meaning or whether we make it up as we go. I don’t know whether the universe is absurd or whether we are too small to understand it. Most people seem desperate to pick a side, and I’ve never found that convincing.
What interests me is the experience itself. Suffering is interesting, and so are happiness and love. I can sit here and feel sad, then step outside the sadness and think about it, and that is interesting too. Even depression is interesting, not because it’s good and not because I enjoy it, but because it exists at all.
A conscious mind can suffer and watch itself suffer at the same time. It knows a thing is irrational and feels it anyway. Then it makes meaning, destroys it, and spends years wondering whether the meaning was there in the first place.
People ask whether life is meaningful. The question I’d rather have answered is why we ask, and why the possibility of no meaning bothers us as much as it does.
Maybe it has meaning and maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know.
What I do know is that every time I think I’ve understood something, another question turns up behind it. Answers arrive in pairs. People turn out more complicated than they looked, and emotions have layers under them.
That’s enough for me, and not because I found an answer, because I haven’t. I like the looking. Whether there is anything at the end of it, I don’t know.