Why do we persist on needing a reason to do what we do? At least why do we think this… when clearly we do not? Something meaningful. Hmm.

The algorithm presented me with the following today:

If you aren’t naturally tired at night and excited in the morning, then you probably haven’t found something meaningful to work on. Most of your stress doesn’t come from having too much to do, it comes from not doing the things that actually matter to you. The only worse thing than failing at something meaningful is succeeding at something meaningless.

Okay, the author is not wrong.

But why? Why does something have to have meaning?

And why do we despair when we are void of something meaningful? Something internal, anyway…

More and more on this eternal quest, I’m still searching for something meaningful. Something internal. Something I want for me. (Note, not SOMEONE. Fixating on someone is easy.)

I have fixated on the external all of my life. No lie. I’ve recently been encouraged to dig deep into my psyche to determine why. Not to know the reason why, but to forgive this, now, old man and find that one thing. A reason to believe. To live.

Seeing the same struggles mirrored in her, doesn’t help. Yet her journey is her own. She will need to find her internal reasons. As I will need to find my own.

They say we cannot love another until we love ourselves. I don’t know if this is true. I have loved others. And I can safely say I have not loved myself.

If one cannot exist without the other, well, I guess it’s going to be a very, very lonely existence. No wonder I relate to the characters who are alone.

This is humanity. Unique to humanity.

Today I saw a bird. It was a beautiful black bird, with wings that were red and yellow on the shoulders. And I realized, this bird doesn’t know it’s beautiful.

An ancient memory erupted from the depths. My aunt Margie, singing to her pet parakeet. “Pretty bird. Pretty bird.”

And the bird singing back. Did she know she was pretty? Did she simply sing along? Mimicking the music?

Yes, animals groom. And have the ability to look amazing. Without mirrors. I believe it is more from their instinct to be healthy. To scratch an itch. To eliminate unpleasant sensations.

And because it feels good. Like sex.

The entirety of nature—beyond humans—appear to naturally tire, and wake up excited, without something meaningful.

So, in the meantime, humans that struggle (like myself) fixate on external things. Hoping to fake it until we make it. Bullshit.

We talk ourselves out of doing things. If we do this enough, we excel at lying to ourselves. And lose all meaning. Even in the mundane. Maybe even our reason to go on. Still a choice, I am told.

And not choosing is a choice.

Oh, to be a thunderstorm. A force of nature. Or even a cloud.

There’s no intent. No meaning. Simply chaos. Moving in to see what’s grounded. And eliminate what’s not.

Not unlike the love of a fiery woman.

Is this what they mean by letting go? Becoming that force of nature? Thriving without meaning?