I sometimes wonder at the futility of life. At the ultimate destination of living. Death. Why do we work and struggle and suffer to live when in the end we simply die? What is the point in life when all life is to end?
Life
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I sometimes wonder at the futility of life. At the ultimate destination of living. Death. Why do we work and struggle and suffer to live when in the end we simply die? What is the point in life when all life is to end?
TIME TO START LIVING 
I think you mentioned something like this a year ago, or so, and I recall saying something like “there is no meaning, no point” and saying that it was a matter of accepting that and being okay with it, or something like that.
But that was just personal context, I see now. And I think that’s the point: it’s only something that can be answered by the individual. It’s up to a person to either figure out a purpose, invent one, or accept that there really is none (and then decide either to keep going, or reinvent himself so he has a purpose, or not keep going). Finding a purpose seems to be what this is all about.
The purpose of life itself *is* to die; this makes room for new life, then death, then new life, and so on. It actually makes no sense to me. (What I really can’t figure out, though, is the point of knowing you’re going to die—humans are uniquely cursed with awareness of mortality. No one knows why.)
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