We spend a disproportionate amount of our waking hours trying to find the why of everything: why we're here, why this is happening to us. More often than not, the biggest, most troubling why is 'why bother'. When we begin to ponder our very existence–a negligible speck in the infinite expanse of the galaxy–why bother is the first to pop up. Why bother getting good grades, why bother going to work, why bother even getting up from bed. Since nothing we do really, truly matters in the grand scheme of things, why do we even expend so much effort?
The more well-adjusted of us will claim that love, friendship, and beauty are all the meaningful goals we must aspire to. The pursuit of worthwhile ideals is, to the romantic, a reason to live for. However, I would like to point out that these same ideals are so fleeting and ethereal that I wonder if they're worth getting worked up over.
The way I see it, life is 95% hardships and 5% actual reward. There's always gonna be something wrong. So why do we even try when we know it's all going to shit, anyway?
We're all in denial about this pointlessness. Some, like me, strive to find meaning in abstract concepts. Some drown out these thoughts with alcohol, drugs, music, books — basically whatever they're passionate about. Luckiest are those who strike the right balance: they know they don't matter in the universe but act as if they do anyway.
The secret is that there is no secret. The pursuit of the meaning of life is pointless because it does not exist on its own. You have to create it yourself. It's not a goal you aspire to, but a concept that you yourself define.
