Why are we here? It’s one of those questions that people toss around at 2 AM when the silence is too loud. I imagine most people just settle for the answers they’re handed — religion, destiny, or some vague notion of karma. Otherwise, facing the absurdity of it all head-on is enough to make you want to take up extreme couponing or another equally futile hobby.
Self-help gurus will tell you to look within, like you’re some kind of mystical treasure chest just waiting to be opened. You’re supposed to dig deep and unearth your inner strengths while also wrestling with your weaknesses, like some sort of spiritual CrossFit. But who has ever found their true self in this relentless excavation? Maybe some people stumble upon a niche, what amounts to a comfortable little cubbyhole in the universe where they can pass the time. Is that really self-discovery? For me, it seems like settling into a routine that feels slightly less horrifying than the alternatives.
Let’s take a step back and acknowledge that our very existence is a cosmic accident. You can dress it up in whatever existential jargon you like. But ultimately, we’re all just the result of some divine slip-up. Some of us land in the lap of luxury, while others are born into the kind of circumstances that would make even Dickens throw up in his mouth a little.
For most of us, life is a DIY project, cobbling together some semblance of meaning out of the scraps we’re handed. Yes, there are the lucky few whose lives are all but mapped out for them, usually with a hefty trust fund attached. Honestly, though, if someone else defines your “self” for you, can you really say you’ve found it? You’re most likely just living out someone else’s script.
I confess that I’ve not exactly aced the whole “self-discovery” thing, either. It’s hard to focus on your own well-being when you’re busy trying to play savior to others. Apparently, this compulsion to fix everyone else’s problems before your own is a rare trait — though I’d argue it’s more of a maladaptive coping mechanism than anything else. I feel this inexplicable need to help others as if their salvation might somehow lead to my own enlightenment. Well, it hasn’t.
Then there’s the word “complete” — a concept as elusive as it is ridiculous. Who among us is ever truly complete? The universe is infinite, and so too are our desires, insecurities, and the endless pursuit of the next thing we think will make us whole. Contentment is a fleeting illusion at best, a temporary reprieve before the next round of angst kicks into high gear. What most of us call “complete” is usually just a state of convincing ourselves that we’ve got everything we need—or at least everything we’ve convinced themselves we need.
So here we are, tasked with this absurd mission of finding ourselves. What do we discover? Well, we’re more like everyone else than we care to admit. We set out on this grand quest for individuality, only to return with the disheartening realization that we’re just another brick in the wall. The best we can hope for is to find some group of like-minded folks to blend in with, pass through life, and hope that by the end of it all, we can delude ourselves into feeling “complete.”
Life, in all its messy and often disappointing glory, is indeed a very odd thing. Will we ever truly understand it? Probably not. But that’s part of the cosmic joke, isn’t it? We’re here, and that’s all we know. The answer may be simpler than we think: because the universe needed someone to laugh at and we’re the unwitting comic relief.
~ Amelia Desertsong
