Does life truly exist? Is there actual walking, talking, breathing actualities that contain souls? Or simply creative animations of a brilliant imagination? What was that proverb? To know life is to live life. Or is it the other way around?
Is it possible everything we know is mere figments of an unfamiliar imagination? Conceivably a dream or reflection in the mirror; an echo of what might have been. Could it be the universe was created by a simple flight of fancy? And if that fancy becomes monotonous, does that life-force instantaneously ceased from existence?
So many questions for a lonesome irrational creature stranded in an admonished existence embracing the what ifs and should have’s. Which in turn leads to the day old question to which the answer permanently eludes, “What is the meaning of life?”
Perhaps the meaning isn’t found within the question. Perhaps the connotation is instead, the answer; What. Too many abandoned souls contemplate this lost cause when the cause was never just to begin with. The what, in this case is irrelevant because the what, never was. And if there isn’t a reason, then there can’t be a question. Therefore, the only possible conclusion would be, just live.
We carry on, disregarding the probability of the dream ending at any given moment, ceasing anything and everything that coincide within the illusion. But if I’m not truly here then it’s impossible that you’re reading this and we are fabrications delicately allocated in pieces that make up the entire universe.
Problematic gestures with many different meanings convene full circle. So the question arises once more over and over, and if the question comes back to itself, then isn’t it inevitable that the answer resides in its own uncertainty?