In defense of a “meaningless” life

I might be wrong, but it seems like the older I get the more I think this “life with purpose” bit is complete and utter bullshit. It’s probably existential, you know, like people want to believe that there’s a point to all this random crap we have to deal with. That they are here not because of some stupid chemical/astronomic accident, but because there’s a “reason”, or a “higher purpose”.

We were put here on earth for a reason.

They want to believe that hey, we’re here because we’re necessary. We’re needed. Someone’s life is better because I exist.

Bull fucking shit.

It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve finally realized that I’ve been entirely interpreting my life in a scholastic manner, like I’m only attempting to do my best because there’s a next level to aspire to. A video game life, if you will, wherein only by defeating this level’s challenge can I get to fight The Big Bad and rescue the princess. It means I’m living my life conquering one mountain after another, and I don’t even like nature that much.

I thought life had a masterplan. That I only had to get from one milestone to the next and I would find myself whole. Complete.

But I’m done with that.

Because I’m done chasing someone else’s version of success.

Up until now I’ve spent a lot of time defining my goals by other people’s standards. Most of it was subconscious. Ever since I was a kid I knew that I needed to graduate with honors so I could land a good job; I needed to get a good job so I could make enough money; I needed money so I could buy a car, and a house, and whatever else money gets to buy these days.

Because to live otherwise is to live without “purpose”. Without establishing myself, without gaining any kind of validation from society, my life is “meaningless”.

That is, of course, if I continue buying into other people’s visions of what I ought to aspire for.

Well this isn’t going to sound polite, but I don’t owe people shit.

I’m done running after a future I don’t even care for.

Meaningful, they say, is to have done something worthwhile with your time here on earth. Meaningful means you didn’t waste your time fucking around. Meaningful means you’ve made something of yourself, become a person that society can admire.

By society’s standards I’m living a completely meaningless life: cubicle job, with just enough money to pay the bills and a little extra; 28 and not in a relationship; two financially worthless degrees and plans to get a third one; hobbies include reading, writing, and staring at the bloody ceiling.

Society disapproves.

But a meaningful life to me is one lived to the fullest, without qualm or care for the pathetic, judgmental assholes who spend their time trying to measure you against an invisble standard of success.

A meaningful life to me is a life filled with books, and laughter, and learning, and writing, and coffee, and music, and dreams, and love, and my family, and screw anyone who tries to convince me otherwise.

Because I’m done breaking my neck trying to achieve someone else’s interpretation of success.

Because it might be meaningless to you, but it’s definitely meaningful to me.

Because screw reason or a grander purpose; I’m just happy to be alive.


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