In a month (long version) of days, I will have survived seven decades in this tangled web of being we call life. I do not know whether to weep or rejoice. What meaning to the world, my seven decades? What meaning to myself?
I ask these questions of myself every year; the answer is always the same; I don't know. Not knowing bugs the hell out of me. I can not bear (though I do) the thought that there is no meaning, that I am only the product of a random sperm on a thoughtless night, without any meaning more than that.