Today I came to the sudden, happy realization that my life is meaningless, and became overjoyed by the notion that I don’t have to be happy.I’ve been trying to put my actions, thoughts, dreams—life—into some sort of perspective: a desperate attempt to live beyond myself and imbue my solitary existence with meaning. I have finally found comfort, however, in the thought that my entire life can be meaningful by being meaningless. I—my entire life—have been reduced to an expansive relative existence within a context of everything and everyone around me; this world is just a mindless organism; everything in existence is an organic machine; every human is merely a furnace. The mechanisms of these living machinations continue to function whether I burn brightly or dully; life will persevere regardless of my ability or inability to produce heat or light. The pressure of a meaningful individual existence has disappeared: I’m okay with being an animal, a part of the living organism of LIfe, part of the indelible story of humanity, a simple member of our animalistic collective soul. I no longer feel the anxieties attached to the need to contribute to self: can merely hoard accreted meaning and matter. When I die, this meaning and matter will be released into the atmosphere, and the machinations of people, Earth, everything, will simply march on.
The result of this realization is this: I am completely content living a life of misery, because even in that existence, I am not affecting people, but still contributing to the story of Humanity. After all, what is happiness without an understanding of sorrow? I am part of a giant narrative that needs heroes, villains, and static characters. I can be a miserable, static character in The Grand Story. And knowing that makes me happy.