To understand the meaning of life, we must first define life itself. Life, as they say, is what you make it; my own life, I like to think, is an allotted period of time to change the world. Maybe we don’t change the world in drastic ways, but who is anyone to say what is or isn’t important? A picked flower from the back field was clutched in the grubby hand of a toddler, and later dropped directly in the path of a desperate honeybee. I pressed snooze on my alarm clock twice, and saved the pedestrian I may have otherwise hit on my way to work. There’s no telling what seemingly inconsequential actions can alter the course of living being’s life.
But what do those alterations mean? It’s quite the concept to tackle. Perhaps we are here to improve our world; our purpose could be to advance humankind, but what’s the point? We can continue to advance and thrive and live and love and cry and laugh and hit and yell and then…
We die. We’ve all affected people’s lives, and contributed something, but what’s the goal? It’s said that life is about the journey, but why travel to a nonexistent destination? Who said, “let’s get in the car; we’re going nowhere!” before a significant road trip? We can never finish what we were put here to do, for every human in this planet is united in their utter lack of purpose. In our destination-less travels, the mirage, an illusion of an end haunts us all. There is only one way to change that: we must, in order to survive, create our own destination. It’s our duty as humankind to set our own goals, and, by extension, our own meaning for life.
Maybe all we are is part of a pointless game, but a loving and loved grandmother can be satisfied with far she’s gotten. I can fall in love and be successful. My neighbor can worship his god and become the embodiment of that god’s wishes. We can all set destinations for ourselves along the way.
We create the meaning in our own lives.