The Comfort of a Meaningless Life

Some seem to find comfort in the idea of everything happening for a reason. I find no comfort in that at all. With some of the things going on in the world, with so much that has already happened, if I thought there were to be some overarching reason behind it, I’d be – quite frankly – absolutely terrified of the reasoner.

I have a life. I am living it as best I can. Then I will die, and that will be that.

When I look around and see arbitrary injustice, death, disorder, abuse of every possible description, (there can be no means of man’s inhumanity to man that has not been devised and used), it is bad enough.

To be told that there is some Grand Plan, that I am nothing more than a pawn in that plan, that I am entirely expendable, and so is my family, my friends, my acquaintances, and every innocent child in the world… that, for me, would bring not comfort, but despair.

Better no reason. Better, for me, that we live our lives as best we can and make the impact our actions have within our own personal sphere of influence as positive as possible. Better that we may evade some of the sickness there is in this world than to feel it is necessary to be crushed beneath it because something, somewhere, has devised it in this way and said “Let it be so.”

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