When I’m unhappy, I feel like I’m doing life wrong. I’d rather be happy. But is happiness the point of life, or is there more to it? If I pursue happiness, mine first then for those around me, is that selfish? But if there’s a bigger purpose, then what about people with Alzheimer’s or dementia who can’t recall recent experiences or make plans?
Because of tripping on shrooms, I had a long think about the meaning of life. The following is from a comment I posted in another thread about the meaning of life:
I understood that “the meaning of life” was less about me or my species or even my entire planet and more about the universe, which I would describe as not just humbling, but an epiphany of ego death on a scale I’d never considered. I was searching for the meaning of life, and was initially disappointed to not find one, and then understood that the meaning isn’t for me or us. We are merely a tool; a function.
Life is something that happened because it was possible, and it’s been allowed to continue because it’s expediting the natural process of masses and energies. All life absorbs matter and energy, breaking them down faster than they otherwise would. We’re achieving entropy. Humans are especially good at this, burning material for heat, moving quickly over long distance, dreaming of escaping to other worlds to burn material elsewhere. With interstellar travel, we could be an entropic plague. The heat death of the universe gets a little closer every time we breathe or eat or drive our silly cars or fuck. Everything we do is fulfilling our purpose, so there’s really no wrong way to live, and I find an awful lot of comfort in that.
The new Zelda game is fun, and playing it is my meaning of life this week.