if the meaning of life, as i strongly believe, is to make more penguins* then what do those of us who have opted out of penguin-making have? well, i for one am perfectly happy** with no overarching meaning. just as i am happy to have no god or fate of big fat sky fairy of any sort guiding my actions, throwing stones or roses under my feet based on its mood of the day, i am perfectly happy to live an existence whose entire meaning, or lack thereof, rests upon my own shoulders. yes, tis a heavy burden, but you know what? at least then i have nobody but myself to blame when things go bad.
wait, that doesn't help, does it? and yet, strangely, it does. i like the idea of being responsible for my own meaning, for being responsible for my own choices. today, as i walked home from school, it was this very notion that managed to yank me out of a deep funk - the idea that things simply happen. they aren't meant to happen, they aren't fated to happen, they don't mean something, they just happen. what i do with it is my own damn choice. for some reason it lifted a rather heavy burden from my metaphorical shoulders and made me feel far more optimistic - that the road is a mystery, that it is littered with surprises good and bad, and that there isn't some Special Path that i need to be looking for, that wherever i am, is where i am meant to be, because i am my own meaning.
you know what, kittens? boring to you all this amateurish philosophising might be, but hot damn, i am finding it really pertinent. at this rate, i might just psychoanalyse my own damn self out of this depression. i wonder what the end result will be? a better, slicker me? i know for a fact i'll have better ass muscles with all the running i've been doing, and if nothing else, strong ass muscles can come in very handy on the rocky path of life.
over and out.
*i blogged this in the mist-shrouded past that will evidently remain shrouded in the aforementioned mists because i can't find it. the gist of it is based on a really depressing nature film narrated (natch) by sir david attenborough, wherein penguins huddle in big groups for the duration of a particularly nasty and stormy and loooong winter, holding their eggs on their feet, taking turns inside the marginally warmer huddle, with the express purpose of protecting their eggs to let them hatch in the spring, thereby making more penguins who will then repeat the whole dismal process, just to make more penguins.
**well, with the obvious caveat of me not actually, at the moment, being perfectly happy. but it's a minor quibble.