Life is interesting.
I don’t know if it has meaning or if we’re just making it up as we go. I don’t know if the universe is absurd or if we’re simply too small to understand it. Most people seem desperate to choose a side. I never found that very convincing.
What interests me is the experience itself.
Suffering is interesting. Happiness is interesting. Love is interesting. The fact that I can sit here and feel sad, then step outside of that sadness and think about it, is interesting. Even depression is interesting. Not because it’s good, and not because I enjoy it, but because it exists at all.
A conscious mind is a strange thing. It can suffer and watch itself suffer at the same time. It can know something is irrational and still feel it. It can create meaning, destroy meaning, and then spend years wondering whether meaning was ever there in the first place.
People ask whether life is meaningful. I think a more interesting question is why we’re asking. Why do we care so much? Why does the possibility of meaninglessness bother us? Why do we keep searching?
Maybe life has meaning. Maybe it doesn’t.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that every time I think I’ve understood something, another question appears behind it. Every answer creates two more questions. Every person is more complicated than they first seem. Every emotion has layers beneath it.
For me, that’s enough.
Not because I’ve found the answer, but because I haven’t.