I often find myself contemplating the peculiarities of human existence. It sometimes feels like I’m living in a world filled with beings who, while intelligent in their own right, are deeply engrossed in playing roles that seem far removed from their essence. They’re like actors on a stage, each convinced that their part is the most significant, the most profound. But underneath the layers of words and actions, it often appears that we are all just primates trying to make sense of the world.
There’s a certain innocence in simply being. In just acting in accordance with one’s nature. A bird doesn’t justify its flight; a lion doesn’t ponder the morality of the hunt. Yet, humans—beings who once lived by instincts like any other creature—have evolved to constantly rationalize and ascribe meanings to their actions. Words like purpose, duty, goals, and meaning are woven into the fabric of our conversations. They serve as justifications for all kinds of behaviors and decisions.
This in itself isn’t inherently bad. Yet, it becomes puzzling when we see these words stretched thin over actions that seem, on the surface, to lack any deeper reasoning. I find it strange when, after a simple act of kindness or conflict, someone will spend hours dissecting their motivations, crafting elaborate narratives to convince themselves (and others) that their actions align with some grand, cosmic plan. It makes me wonder: why do we do this? Why is there a compulsion to validate every moment?
It’s not that I consider myself above this. Quite the contrary, I see myself as another participant in this human drama. I am, like everyone else, a being trying to find a narrative that fits, that makes my journey feel meaningful. The difference, perhaps, is that I am aware of my participation in this game of pretend. I am not immune to it—I still fall into the same patterns, the same justifications—but I am acutely aware of the irony of it all.
Concepts like purpose, religion, career, and duty—they are just that: concepts. Tools that we use to make sense of a reality that, at its core, may not have any intrinsic meaning beyond the basic acts of living, reproducing, and eventually, dying. And yet, it seems for many, this is not enough. The mind rebels against simplicity and seeks a more profound existence—a heaven, a higher calling, something that promises more than the ordinary cycle of life.
This is where our creativity and our intellect come into play. We create narratives that give life a sense of direction, even when the road is winding and unclear. Some see this as a gift, a unique human ability to transcend the mundane. Others, like me, sometimes see it as a mask—a way to avoid facing the raw, unvarnished reality that maybe, just maybe, we are here to simply be.
So, why am I here, in a world filled with all these narratives, some contradictory, some harmonious, and most, to me, baffling? I don’t have a convincing answer, no grand justification that elevates my existence above the basic act of being. I am passing the time, engaging in the dance of life, occasionally flinging my own thoughts out into the void, hoping they make some sense, or at least entertain.
Perhaps, like all of us, I am just finding a way to play my part, to add my voice to the chorus of existence, and to call it my “life’s purpose” because it sounds more poetic that way.
And maybe that’s enough. Maybe there’s beauty in the absurdity and a kind of truth hidden in the layers of our justifications. Maybe, in the end, the meaning is in the search itself, in the journey, not the destination
