Is it destiny to experience pain, suffering, boredom and frustration,
or are these just the fickleness of a fragile, human mind?
Is there a rhyme or a reason or perhaps a haiku to explain why we exist?
Why we dance our little act upon the world’s stage, this great wheel that turns and turns unceasing?
The leaves change, the winds turn,
a child starts as a mere thought in someone’s mind, neurons firing in the brain,
or perhaps as the chance encounter of two people, two cells conjoining—a child one day, a man the next, dust after.
How to make sense of a life as this, a blink in some god’s eye? What could be the purpose of it all?
Generalizations, though smugly satisfying, rarely hold up to the light of day.
Perhaps the most important question one could ask is rather what is the purpose of my life?
What shall I set out to do? To what end will I live? Will it be to fulfill someone else’s dreams or my own?
All other questions are nonsensical.