What is the meaning of life? What does it matter that we have lived? If there is no life after this life, if this life is all we’ve got, should it matter whether we be good or bad? Should it matter that our lives have meaning at all?

There seems to be something innate in us, urging us to live our lives for a good purpose. Yet is there purpose also in death? What do we make of death? Is it restful sleep? Is it judgment? Is it eternal bliss?

Why are we afraid to die? What is it about life that we want to hold on to it no matter the pain and suffering we experience here?

Before we were born, we were sleeping in darkness, we were okey in our sleep. Why fear returning to the dust from which we came from?

When we were born, we were born naked, and naked also shall we depart. Yet few of us would truly want to depart naked. We want to take with us something as though we could use that something in the darkness where we shall proceed.

Why do we wish to survive? Why did nature bless us with survival instincts when it is not our fate to survive? When our final fate is only death? Why prolong life? Why think so deeply when thinking should cease one day? Why love when our hearts can’t beat forever?

There were times when I didn’t fear death. Those were the times I seem to have stepped in into portals of eternity. During those times, it wasn’t mere hope nor theory that assured me of forever. I was certain of it! I just knew. There was no other explanation except that experience of a reality that I’ve tasted.

Maybe that’s the meaning of life that I seek to regain hold of whenever I fall again into the realm of nature’s cycles. A realm of spring and winter, of evening and daytime, of wakefulness and slumber, of fear and of hope.

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