For years I’ve watched friends tie themselves up in knots trying to discover the meaning of life. Which really sucks because that’s time they could have spent actually enjoying what little time they have on this planet.
Don’t get me wrong. I am intensely curious about the workings of the universe. But I’m solely into the “what” and the “how,” which are potentially knowable and therefore worth their pursuit.
The question of “why,” however, is way above my pay grade. That’s for monks, philosophers and Bill Murray.
I’ve always operated under the assumption that the answer to “why” is unattainable and therefore practically insignificant. Then again, I don’t know any monks or philosophers. Or Bill Murray.
But I have met Michael “I’m Batman” Keaton. So I’ve got that going for me.
Look, I don’t want to piss on anyone’s belief system, I just think that if you spend your life searching for some meaning to it all, imagine the disappointment of waking up in your 70s or 80s and realizing you wasted all that time for nothing.
Besides, I’ve always thought it a bit presumptuous of us to assume that there must be a reason for our existence. Billions of stars in billions of galaxies formed who knows how or why and we’re so special there has to be a reason for us? Give me a break.
Bet you didn’t know that the universe has a smell test. Yes it does. And a reason for the existence of the human race doesn’t pass it. No it doesn’t.
Personally I subscribe to the Douglas Adams school of the meaning of life: The Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy series, wherein the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything turned out to be 42.
Sadly, the man passed away before revealing what the question was. And no, it is not (inside joke alert) ,”What do you get when you multiply six by nine?” I don’t care what base your math is.
So where was I going with all this? What was the point? Come to think of it, there really was no point. But then, that’s life.
Image Credit: Douglas Adams