The Meaning of Life
I remember searching for a gas cap at night on the dark ground in the freezing Oklahoman winter and I remember laying in the dark in a shitty room I'd rented out in an apartment, with a boy with his body like strange geometry, shadow like a monolith, and I remember out in the countryside laying down in the hills looking at the stars and hearing a rustle that could be anything - and every time it's this indiscernible creaking rush that flows through my body, this gasp that has no breath, this white and black sensation of all motion and movement and color deep-diving down into my body and twisting out to become perception.
And I think - this is what makes all the suffering worth it. Being alive. Being conscious and aware in a sudden burst of brightness. These little moments of cogent being, dipping my brain into the fronds of all existence. These moments that cannot be bought or sold or recreated in still life, but simple are. This is the great experiment. This is what I've come to understand is the essence of being alive.
It's exciting sometimes, when I accidentally nick my skin and the blood rushes out, because I can feel my heart beating and my vision wobbling and I'm so firmly pushed back into my body.
Watch the whorls in the blood - see how my tears glisten. Sometimes I poke at my skin in the mirror, thinking - how odd it is, to be subjective consciousness. The fractal patterns of pain even form a design that begins to make sense threaded into the fabric of everything.
Even the suffering, that's part of the grand experiment that is life. And isn't it so strange, and so wondrous, and so mysterious, and we are all here - experiencing it together?
And the after these moments where I'm left painfully aware of my own breath, sometimes I grab a coffee, and I taste the valleys and the earth in the strain. I'm here for another day.
The answer to the meaning of life isn't outside of our understanding. It's built into the infrastructure.
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