Humans. They are amazing. To think that within every person lies a torrent of facts, memories and feelings just waiting to gush out into an open, hungry world. But to expect someone to communicate things that deeply matter to them calls for a great amount of vulnerability.
Recently, I've been reading When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi, a fantastic work written by a man awaiting death. Before departing to the next life, Kalanithi explores what it means to be alive and do stuff. Life is so vast in its scope that totality of humanity's combined experiences cannot shine light on the whole truth. The author was intensely honest concerning his search for existential answers in literature and neuroscience. Personally, having studied art and the sciences, I find all sizes of islands of truth in the areas of study. Kalanithi described it as every area of study/profession having a unique language which to interpret the world. So in doing things, life has meaning. Even on the threshold of death, Kalanithi was not idle and still strove to do what was valuable to him.
It has always been important for me to believe that life has meaning. That my life has meaning. Without it, I might as well not be here. But through the discipline of science, I see that even on microscopic level, there is order. Through the discipline of art, I see that encapsulated beauty can have ability to stir minds. Being simply a product of reproduction, it would be far fetched to say that I am self-made. It would be even more far fetched to say that I create meaning for the things I discover around me. It is then doubtful that any existential meaning can be found within ourselves; it would have to be intrinsically there. I am hopeful that truth and meaning exist, because it simply makes the most sense and is the less depressing point of view.