What does my life mean? Obviously this is a question I have dwelt upon. Everything is pointless. But some things are more pointless than others. (Is that distinction deep or shallow? Is plus 1 really so different or better than minus 1?)
I imagine a web suspended in space. Above and below is an infinity of meaninglessness. But tentatively supporting my weight is this tenuous gossamer thread. An ectoplasm of justness. I touch the smooth fossilised footprint of a long extinct dinosaur. My hand examines the impression: void and feature. The differences and similarities to my own hand (to the impression I would have made) are informing this encounter with, not only the object, but also with all beings and all of reality. A creature once stood here. It lived. It breathed. It died. And now there are no more. It. Its mates. Its offspring. There is continuity there. From the very first life-form, to this footprint, to me. Truth. Existence. Being. This footprint means something. I leave footprints. The dinosaur had no understanding. Not even an inkling. But even when the Earth is boiled away into nothingness. I existed. Painful. Strange. Absurd. A chimera of authentic and inauthentic. Social and individual. My address: Louie. The ape. This time. This space. Now.
Cinéma vérité then. Not meaning in the sense of a parable. I do not live by virtue of an overarching lesson. I am not a character in a play whose actions are prescripted. Minute by minute I inhabit my skull. I feel the freedom and the limitations. I am not a solipsist. I am an existentialist and nihilist. Temporary meaning subsumed in a wider nothingness of unmeaning. The thread breaks. I descend into the darkness. To join all kin of being. But I did exist. We did exist. Whatever else is true or false. That is a meaning. Of sorts. To me at least.Go Top