i think constantly about the meaning of life.

and this is a privilege. it’s a privilege because all my basic needs are met. i have enough to eat. i have a home. i have my health. i have a strong support network. and i have the capacity to worry about the point of it all.

sometimes, i think i understand why i’m alive.

it’s found in the moments before a storm, when bruise-grey clouds sweep across the sky and storm-cooled winds steal across my skin. it’s going to pour, there’s nothing i can do about it, and i surrender to the chill and the sodden shoes.

or it’s found in the thunder of my heartbeat in my chest, my feet pounding the distance to the finish line, my muscles singing with exertion. when i run, and the stars are aligned and the conditions are right, i feel i can go on and on forever.

or it’s found on a clear day and the windows are open. the sunlight is warm and soft and slanting; the wind is cooling and carries the sound of rustling trees. i look up into greenery and the fleeting peace of a sunday afternoon.

most of the time, it’s impossible to be certain life has any meaning.

i’ve been reading books on history and books on changes. they’ve given me insights into things i thought were immutable and things i never stopped to think about.

and they also emphasise my belief in the meaninglessness of everything.

these days, i’m convinced that there is nothing sacred about the human existence (thank you, yuval noah harari). we are not special. the planet is not created for us. we are merely animals that have managed to evolve to dominate earth.

i get all tangled up in thinking: if there’s no point to our existence, if we are born only to die, if there is hardly any chance of living a life of significance (what does that entail anyway?), if this is all there is to it … why do i try? why do i bother?

history is likely to forget us. these words are merely a scream into the void, a speck of digital dust. you’ll forget this post in the minutes after you close this window.

and … it doesn’t matter.

you know why? because i’m not even going to try.

hold up, hold up. this is what i mean: it’s pointless (and exhausting) to constantly compare myself to others and strive to become like them, to become better than them. so, you know what? fuck that, i’m not even going to try.

i want to be good at what i want to be good at, and these standards will be my standards, because none of us has a fucking clue what we’re doing anyway. do i sound like i lack ambition? vision? goals? maybe. let’s say i never end up publishing a book. let’s say my words will fade into the ether, unknown and unread.

so be it.

let me join the millions of others who came before, anonymous and silent. i am no different from them. no better than them. but i am lucky, because i have this freedom to do what i enjoy, to work at it again and again until i’m better at it (i.e. writing). there is a joy in that.

in the end, it doesn’t matter what i achieve, because everything will turn to dust anyway. but it does matter that i’m doing it now, and that’s good enough for me.

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