Life is so exquisitely meaningless, yet it means so much to me. There are a thousand reasons why every instant has beauty and wonder. The small curve of my young son’s cheek catches my breath with its form. I shaped that face inside myself; now, he strides forward to face the world. I am in awe of the miniscule beginnings that stretch larger, outward, into each of us and beyond. He and I both come from the elements of stars, and will cycle back again, in turn. The profundity of how absolutely connected everything is, on an elemental scale, remains astonishing.
A cluster of cells—united in purpose—divide to multiply. Repetition and pattern, the rules of formation engage. Are you flora? Or, are you fauna? There are rules for your making. Why do you form thusly so? We cannot say exactly why, only how. As such, then, how curious, and how marvelous; how remarkable it all is! The lifespan of a person is usually within the confines of only one century. This proves to be no more than a mere speck in the ever-expanding continuum of time. The lifespan of an adult mayfly is usually within the confines of only one day. It is a fully lived life, though brief in comparison to our own human experience. This extraordinary brevity causes me to pulse with gratitude for the chance to even exist. Look closer and you will see lifetimes lived within a moment. Epic dramas of tiny proportions are contained within a single dewdrop.
There is nothing exceptionally exceptional about existence. It occurs hourly, and is ended likewise. There is nothing special about being alive, other than that it is happening to you. The conscious framework of your own being is the only reason you have any meaning at all.
The meaning of life is what you make of it. My life means nothing, but I shall make the most of it. Nothing matters, really. How, then, do I find that all the nothingness matters most of all?