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A Few Selected Reads

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Why Are We Here? The Never-Ending Question of Existence

 


There are moments when life feels like a strange, fleeting dream—when I look around and wonder, What does any of this really mean?   what does it mean to be alive? to have a concience? to have feelings and emotions? The idea that we are all just floating on a rock in the middle of an unfathomably vast universe, bound by time and yet so unaware of its passing, is enough to send anyone into an existential spiral. And yet, that’s exactly what makes life so perplexing, so frustrating, so beautiful.

Existentialism isn’t just a philosophical concept; it’s a feeling. It creeps up on you in the quiet hours of the night when you stare at the ceiling and question everything. It whispers in the back of your mind when you realize how minuscule you are in the scheme of things, in infinite unkown of the universe. It makes you question purpose, identity, and the absurdity of existence itself. And yet, despite its daunting nature, our curiosity in the unkown is enough to drive one to the brink of madness yet grounds us to life, gives us purpose, a meaning to life which none have found out yet.

We aren’t born with a predefined purpose. There’s no grand script we’re meant to follow, no destiny waiting to be fulfilled, but if that is the case then what is the point of life. If our time on earth is frivolous then what is the point? Maybe it is up to us to define what that existence means. Terrifying? Absolutely. But also liberating. Because if there is no inherent purpose, then we have the power to create our own, but doesnt that seem to vague? I mean everything in our life, or atleast what we know of it is well defined by a set of rules, but if the purpose of life is left entirely up to us what are we to make of it?


And yet, creating meaning is no easy task. We spend our lives searching for something—validation, success, love, happiness—desperately trying to justify our existence. But what if the meaning isn’t something we find, but something we build? What if it isn’t in the grand accomplishments or life-changing moments, but in the small, fleeting experiences—the laughter shared between friends, the comfort of a late-night conversation, the warmth of the sun on your skin? Maybe, just maybe, meaning isn’t some profound revelation waiting for us at the end of our journey. Maybe it’s in the little things we often overlook.

If meaning is subjective, then isn’t everything just an illusion? If purpose is something we invent, doesn’t that make it inherently fragile? That’s the struggle of existentialism—it doesn’t provide answers, only questions. And yet, that’s the beauty of it. Because if nothing is predetermined, then everything is possible.

So here we are, small and insignificant in the vastness of the unknown, and yet entirely responsible for making our lives matter. Maybe that’s the ultimate challenge—to exist despite the absurdity, to create meaning where there is none, and to find beauty in the fact that nothing really lasts.

And maybe that’s enough.

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