We are addicted to meaning. We seek it in the stars, in books, in lovers' eyes. We stitch it into tragedy, laugh at it in comedy, chase it in religion, and question it in philosophy.
But what if there is none?
Kafka said, "The meaning of life is that it ends." A bitter truth yet freeing. Without meaning, we are not bound to a cosmic purpose; we are free to create one. Nietzsche invites us to become the artist of our own morality, to stare into the abyss and paint it with colors of our choosing.
Perhaps it is not meaning we seek, but comfort. A reason to wake up. A reason not to throw ourselves into the sea. And if that reason is made-up then so be it. What matters is not if the meaning is true, but if it saves us from despair.
To live without asking why every moment is not to live blindly. It is to walk bravely through a meaningless world, knowing that our footprints are the only proof we were here.
So create meaning. Carve it with your pain, your love, your death. Let it be yours.