Life is such a strange place. The very concept of being is so strange, so hard to grasp, that we spend the majority of it trying to break it down into small, easy to digest pieces that our own minds can comprehend. Which makes sense, right? We’re thrust into this world, these realm of senses, of physical being, of responsibility and pain and pleasure and wonder and we never once asked for it. We never asked to be granted entry. It simply happens, whether you wanted it or not. No one asks if you’d prefer the oblivion before it.

Life is a beautiful place. I don’t regret a single moment I’ve spent wrapped in it, and I don’t regret continuing to live it. It is strange and hard, but beautiful and wondrous and so worth living. Despite that, though, it doesn’t change that it is so very vast. As I said, life is so strange that we have to try and decipher meaning from it. We write poetry, we create art, we try to make it all make sense with some grand being up above that created us for… so because it could. The sadistic fuck.
We do this because it lessens the confusion. It makes a little sense of it. We take the very concept of being, and we put it to metaphor. We put it against music.  We philosophize and hypothesize because unless we try to make sense of it, the pure vastness of it swallows us whole.

Why are we here? Who put us here? What meaning does my life hold? How the hell can I be expected to go forth and be fruitful when I am but a speck in the grand scheme of things. I may be able to move mountains, but those mountains are nothing compared to the star systems and trillions upon trillions of planets that exist above us. Everything spins – if you’re silent and still, you swear you can feel the turn of Earth around the sun, moving so fast and if we don’t cling to it and to each other, we might just slip…

I’m no different than anyone else. I am a wholly insignificant player in this game. I barely move grains of sand, let alone mountains, and I’ll be lucky if more than ten people remember me six months after I’m gone.
Yet I feel like I’m more. I stare through these eyes, and I move and walk through my life, I make choices and I craft worlds and I know that I am my whole life. I matter. To what, to whom? Perhaps just myself. But that’s something.

And it’s slightly frightening. Time moves faster and faster. I have many years left, sure, but it continues to slip between my fingers. What am I doing? Am I doing as much as I could? Why do I get up, go about my routine, go to work just to fund the cycle, and continue onward? What is the point? Why continue when everything is so god damned vast and so god damn frightening and confusing and everywhere you look, the meaning of it all escapes you?

Vastness scares me. I am afraid of the depths of the ocean, the far reaches of space, and just how much I don’t know and am unaware of. Maybe that’s why people go to God. It gives them something tangible to focus on and it gives them meaning. They move forward for Him. They live because it’s what He wants, and in the end He will reward them. Because with God, there is a purpose. Does anyone want to believe there isn’t a purpose? God is a comfort, there is no denying that. Once again, it’s a way to make sense of something we are so unable to comprehend.

I tried believing in God. I also tried not believing in God. Just like nearly everything I do, I find myself inadequate in both – I can’t devote myself as a follower of a deity, but I can’t completely reject the fact that one exists, watching over us all. I play it safe and call myself an Agnostic, because it’s the easy way out. I feel that just lends more uncertainty to myself.

But I digress.The point is, I find myself growing more weary and more afraid as I try to attach meaning to everything. I’m not a nihilist, or some dark depressed fool who is going to do nothing because everything has no meaning. I have meaning. But I won’t exist forever. There will come a day where I won’t write another word. I won’t think another thought. My jokes and my personality and everything that I know and have known for all these years just won’t be. And it gets even worse – reincarnation doesn’t even console me, because if I’m born as someone else, then THIS still won’t matter! I will be back on square one, trying to figure it out all over again. Is this all just a scientific coincidence? We just came to be accidentally? Or is there an omniscient force who created us for their own purposes? Or are we all just blips of energy in the huge sea of the universe, crashing on the shore for a short while only to be pulled back in later on?

Is this all just a hallucination?
Just a simulation?
Maybe it’s the matrix, or a video game, or…

Or maybe life just is what it is. A vast sea of crazy, improbable, ultimately meaningless but no less beautiful and important to us.
Perhaps there is no purpose. And we’re just here by chance, to do with our life whatever we can.  Pull whatever meaning we want.

It’s so crazy and scary and when I look at the sky and think – I still feel like I’m being swallowed whole.

I don’t know.

But I’m alive. I’m here. I’m me, and I enjoy doing what I do. And I have many more years to enjoy, with all luck.
And I should probably just stop taking it for granted and go out there and do something. Anything.

Just live.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

– Brandon, 11:48 PM