I have to believe that there is meaning in the universe. Even if most of life is about cause and effect, the random spin of the draw, people playing roulette at a casino with the spinner blending both whites and reds.I have to believe that tragedy is purposeful. But life circumstances, events, don’t have any meaning until we’ve placed meaning upon them. Until we’ve connected the dots, until we’ve constructed a story from A to B, C to D, events don’t have much meaning at all. They can disappear, like crumbling skyscrapers, disintegrating into the wind. They are nothing, just the bitter reminder of “what ifs” and “how abouts.” There is no point in looking back, because the past is the past, it’s dead and gone.
There Is Meaning
If I could transfix meaning upon an instance, then the memory could have a reinterpreted meaning in the future. It could serve some other person.
If I live life thinking that I am a free-agent, I am truly depressed. Because when I believe that to be true, than my disappointment and dissatisfaction, is placed on me and me alone.
I am controlled, compelled by, given to something, some fate far greater than myself. I am pulled towards like a man attracted to the eye of a hurricane, like a lover drawn towards her eyes.
Even if life was meaningless, it would be better to ascribe meaning to circumstances, even if we don’t know if that is the exact truth of the matter.
It is better to create a story worth hearing about even if it isn’t exactly true. It’s better to see your life through a metanarrative because it will help direct the course you are heading towards. The other way only leads to bleak nihilism, or to self-forgetful hedonism that some of us live.
I want to believe God is controlling some aspect of my life, that I’m not thrown to the dogs to fend for myself as my creator stands far off, lamenting that he shouldn’t have gave me free will.
I would like to believe that my decision I made, was mine to make, and that there is some importance in acting out of faith, trust, in some inner strength that is beyond myself.
I want to think that when I see a baby, I see objective beauty, not some Darwinian impulse in an attraction to big eyes, small features, and an unwillingness to eat my own progeny.
I want to see that life in itself is amazing, as much as the flower and it’s pigments is not only to attract bees, but for me to marvel at the pigmentation, smell the nectar, and pick the pedals asking “She loves me, She loves me naught.”
There is something in experience, in existence that cries for beyond more than the material, the idea that the atoms are constantly in motion, and we as humans are in motion. We are not static, but dynamic, not waiting until the last breath, but breathing each breath deliberately to sustain our lives. There is something the cries for more, something that tells that we were born for a reason more than procreation.