The Meaning of Life

I don’t often find myself thinking about the meaning of life. That is because for me the meaning of my existence (and others, too) is to born, to live and then to die. That is everything and it’s enough for most of the living beings.

Therefore, it pisses me off, when I find myself thinking what the point in all this is. Living, that is. And when I find myself thinking such useless thoughts, I know that I’m in the mood of a beginning melancholy. I am a gloomy person, and though I’m used to my gloominess, this apathy and despair makes me crazy.

Despair always brings up questions that have no answers or the answers are of useless. It’s frustrating and that is why I don’t like to make any questions. I prefer just living without heavy consideration of my beings and whereabouts.

It would be a lot easier if I knew the right questions, which I don’t. I don’t have any good questions, because actually I don’t want to know anything in particular. I only want to live and it is enough of a task for me. If I had a special thought, a certain question to ask, I could maybe find an answer, maybe even a solution and then I could say farewell to my melancholy and look for the brighter side of life, or at least could lean towards the less shadowy side of the street.

However, the things being as they are, I can do nothing else than wait for this mood of mine to pass away. It usually does, in some time, and one day I realize that I can again continue my meaning of life: I’ll carry on with living, without bothering to make any questions.

Meanwhile, I’m still thinking.