The Meaninglessness of Seeking Meaning

Dear Mary,

For as long as I can remember, I’ve tried desperately to make something of my fleeting spark of existence. It became clear to me at a young age that I would never truly become important. Instead, I can say with utmost certainty that, in the grand scheme of the universe, no singular human has ever been, or ever will be, significant. I know I’m no different. And yet, that has not stopped me from clutching and clawing my way toward something greater than myself.

I’ve learned all I can and seen all there is to see. I met countless people, all fascinating in their own right. I gazed wistfully at the stars and at our star as it rose and fell each day. I’ve seen the horrible destruction caused by natural disasters and the blooming of a resilient dandelion as it crept upward through the asphalt ceaselessly. “There has to be something more.” That’s what I’d tell myself. “It has to mean something.” But it never meant anything, not as far as my feeble mind could deduce.

And yet, I carried on. I saw more, learned more, and gained more perspective. I rose above the clouds, gazing eye-level with the Sun, and dove deep into the ocean, where no light can reach. I spoke with beggars and kings, atheists and believers alike. I saw it all. I did all there was to do. I believed, no, I had to believe, deep within my soul, that there was something I could do with this information. Some form of legacy I could leave, or cause I could further that would truly mean something, universally speaking. Some way that I, a mere ant on the hill of time, could leave some speck of meaning for others to find as they, too, searched for theirs.

Many nights I’ve spent tossing and turning, unease filling my mind. I could not find rest amidst the tumultuous waters of my ideas. “It has to mean something, but what?” There was nothing I could do to quell these thoughts. Eventually, I’d ponder and fret my way into sleep, as nightmares filled with overwhelming feelings of meaningless would fill my dreams. I’d wake with a start, cold sweat covering my shivering form. These nightmares and sleepless nights have taken a toll on me in my old age. I find myself without the energy to eat a proper meal or even to step outside most days.

Our son tells me I worry too much that the meaning of life is simply to live it. I genuinely envy his outlook. You shared the same sentiment back when I knew you. If I could have felt similarly to you, I have no doubt I would’ve lived a much happier, fulfilling life. But that’s the problem. It doesn’t matter. How I lived my life does not matter. And it never would have, regardless of whether I was happy, sad, depressed, anxious, pious, greedy, outgoing, or a hermit. It does not matter a single bit. What matters is how I could leave a lasting impact on this Earth and on the human race as a whole. If I had discovered something new or some new way of looking at something in all my years of seeing the world, then I could’ve left something for future generations to build upon. Then, I would’ve mattered to those I influenced and inspired with my work. But I have no such work to speak of, and I fear I never will.

I feel rather cold these days. I think Death will surely come knocking any day now. I find myself losing the desire to matter. That desire seems to be overwhelmingly replaced by the desire to simply be happy. As I lie here, writing this letter with the last of my life energy, I realize I was wrong. My own worst nightmares, those which haunted me every night, are coming true. I didn’t matter. I never did. And nothing I ever did mattered, either. I will be lost to time, as most humans are destined to be. And yet, now, having accepted this and with no time left in life to change it, the irony has set in. Had I simply taken the time to enjoy life with the people I knew, we would’ve made something beautiful together. If I had taken even a fraction of the time I spent scrambling and clawing my way toward a non-existent meaning to life and instead spent it with you and our son, I would’ve left more of an impact. As our son continues to grow as he ages, and as he meets people and has children of his own, he will leave an impact on them, and so on.

But I’ve missed it. It’s too late. I sabotaged my own ability to leave a lasting impact by seeking said lasting impact. I can’t help but laugh a little at my own foolishness. I still believe that on the universal scale, it does not matter whether or not an individual human is happy while they are alive. However, in the twilight hours of my life, I realized where I went wrong when I first came to that conclusion all those years ago: if it does not matter either way if I was happy, then why would I torture myself with unhappiness in a desperate attempt to change that universal truth I had already come to understand? It’s truly ironic. Instead of being happy and insignificant, I was simply miserable and insignificant, instead. Even worse, by living a happy life, my mind may have even been freed up to organically come to a meaningful conclusion. We all know the best ideas come naturally. They are not forced or beaten out of the mind through torturous, rigorous routines. They simply come to us when they come.

And so, as I lie here, faced with the reality of my worst nightmare not only coming true but being exasperated by my own actions in life, I can’t help but see the hilarity within it. I think I’ll have myself a laugh and walk the old dog down to the beach one last time. He’s always loved to run wild on the beach as the Sun sets. Perhaps I will, too.

Forever Yours,

Gregory