It is said that where there is life, there is hope.
But hope for what, exactly? Hope for more life? So that we can live for more hope?
Existing depends on a very circular sort of logic.
These are the kinds of thoughts I get when I’m bordering on depression. Okay, not just bordering. They are the very hallmarks of depression. When excitement and interest in living are gone, I find myself trying to develop an intellectual argument for continuing on, getting up in the morning, etc. I have yet to find a good one. I keep going anyway, though, for some reason. Hope, I guess.
Hope that, one day, this will all make sense. Hope that maybe human existence is part of some bigger picture that makes all the suffering we all do have a purpose, or at least a justification. Hope that we aren’t just a universal accident that came into being and will one day wink out, with the very notion of “meaning” going along with us.
There’s really no good reason for it. I just keep doing it anyway. Part of it a sort of survivorship bias, I think. Those who can’t justify their continuing existence eventually don’t bother trying, eventually giving up. Those of us who find some excuse to continue functioning serve as examples as to why maintaining the struggle is “worth it”. But worth it to who, exactly? Who are we trying to convince, here?
We like to think that life is worthwhile. So that’s what we all keep telling each other. Everyone’s got a different idea of what that meaning is, leading to many fierce debates, arguments, and flat-out warfare, but we all find something to stick to. We have to.
If we didn’t, there just wouldn’t be people anymore.