What is the meaning of life? Why are we here? What is the answer to life, the universe, everything? Have you ever asked yourself these questions? Quite probably you have. Whether you were having some kind of crises in your life, or you just like exploring your own inner existentialism, the need to know, or at least feel better, about our existence is one that has plagued mankind since the beginning of time. At least, I assume it has. It sure as hell messes with my mind. You might be thinking that I am going through a crises, since I am obviously thinking about my existence. Well, I actually do enjoy thinking about my existence, and how it fits in with the big scheme of things. Do I have any answers? Of course not. I don’t believe in definite answers, at least where existence and the meaning of life are concerned.
First off I would like to say that, in the big scheme of things, we are nothing. We are next to nothing. We aren’t even dust in the wind. Think about it. Think about the immensity of the universe, of everything. Supposedly, in our galaxy, there are two hundred billion stars. Just in our galaxy. And speaking of our galaxy, scientists estimate it is about thirty kiloparsecs in diameter and about one kiloparsec thick. Now one parsec is about 3.262 light years, or 19 trillion miles. So that would make our galaxy approximately ninety-seven thousand, eight hundred and sixty light years across. Ok, now, supposedly there are one hundred and twenty-five billion galaxies in the universe. These numbers are, to me, almost completely unimaginable. These are expanses that I can scarcely even conceive.
And here we are. On one little planet in one little, microscopic solar system. To believe that we are all along in the universe, as far as sentient life goes, seems kind of ridiculous when imagining the awesome size of existence. But unlike other believers in aliens and what not, I don’t really think it has any bearing on us whether there is life out there or not. If there were aliens and they had the ability to cross vast reaches of space, then they would most likely have technology far in advance of ours that it might as well be magic. So why would they be interested in the strange, primitive, and mostly harmless creatures that rule over one little tiny speck in a vast vast ocean? The answer is: they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t care. They wouldn’t even slow down to dump their alien trash, assuming they were traveling in a manner where speed is actually relative. So for all intents and purposes, we are alone. Left to our own devices. When we reach a technological level where we have achieved faster-than-light travel, well, then maybe the aliens will stop by, but only to vaporize humanity and leave the earth a lifeless rock.
Moving along then. So here we are, alone and left to our own devices. What else is there for me? Now, I’m not a religious or spiritual man. What happens after I die…well, I guess I’ll worry about that when it happens. If my life ends, then my memories end, and therefore, I end. Is this a bleak outlook? Some might think so. But like I said, I’m not too worried. There are so many other things that I feel are more important and more pressing. Like filling my taxes, or checking out the latest piece of technology that I can’t afford. If you haven’t noticed, I’m glossing over the whole religion thing. Maybe some other time. Moving along once again.
So then what is the point of my life? If the universe is unimaginably vast, and I am some small insignificant piece of it, and I’m not worried about the afterlife, what is there to live for? What is the point of my meaningless, insignificant existence? My answer: there isn’t one…at least, not one that an uncaring universe deigns to give me. So I have to make one up. My point, my meaning, is defined by me, since their does not seem to be anything else, at least for me, to base my existence on. Therefore, my reason for being is living and experiencing. Why? Because those are the things that I have, the things that are real to me. Ninety-seven thousand light years is not real to me. It’s just a concept, an abstraction. The things that are real to me are the things I can see, touch, hear, feel, interact with. The people I know and the lives I have touched. These give me meaning and importance. The things I experience, the food I taste, the sights I see, the sounds I hear. I am the sum of my experience, and my experience defines who I am. It’s the little things that matter most. Holding my girlfriend’s hand, driving my car, writing this blog. All parts of the interweaving, unimaginably complex system that makes up my life. So what if I am less than the dust that dust particles have on their furniture. So what if existence is so large that I might possibly go insane trying to conceive it. It’s my life, possibly the only one I will be given. I might as well revel in it.
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Source: badmojoe78
