luminescent, silvery, languid nights that go on endlessly with meandering trails of considerations and thinking. Regions of long hours devoted to oneself, to musing, to soul-searching, to wondering - when sun filled days come into the mind's eye in the manner of a slide show flickering dull images on a wall. All comes back, the tide of events past reverts and bares itself on the stage. What am I? and what manner of life have I lived and to what purpose after all is said and done?
Man is the only living thing that has the propensity to ask these questions and to debate on his own existence. And, he has done that for centuries. Is the life that I lived, the inconsequential life, did it have any meaning? Did it serve any purpose? Or is it incumbent upon us, because we are endowed with reason, to find meaning to our otherwise meaningless lives? And what is the point of it all? We live a designated period of life on this earth - before which we were nothing and beyond it we will be nothing. So why the urge to find 'meaning' in all this? why this confounded obsession with purpose and reason.
Do we insist on having purpose to our existence because we are uncomfortable with the idea of a random being where we come into this world for no grand end and after a brief interlude, disappear into oblivion forever never to be. We want to attach to ourselves grandiose designs, we want to fill our meaningless endurance with magnificent reasons of why we are here. I don't know if there is a presupposed purpose to our beings or not, but the quest to find one I find intriguing and fascinating. Religions, philosophy, war and peace, acts of valor and compassion, love and loyalty, patriotism, literature and art all are ways to bestow meaning to our lives, to ascertain to our own selves that life is larger than mere existence for a brief period of time on this obscure planet!
Comments
Post a Comment