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The point.
I spent last night with the tv on, staring into the darkness under the coffee table. It was the kind of stare where, had you passed by the window and caught a glimpse, you might think I was intently watching something sad and slightly horrifying that I could not seem to turn away from.
What I was thinking was this: that the universe is meaningless chaos, and that every second of existence is an attempt to infuse a sense of purpose where this is simply none. That love and beauty and creation and destruction and pain and fear are nothing. That we are blips of consciousness — in itself a happy accident — that arose by chance and will disappear with the same degree of intention. That assigning meaning is an exercise in futility, a waste of time and energy. That it would be better to just go through the motions until there were no more motions to go through and accept that everything else is delusion and not worth the effort.
And today I woke up and went back to sleep and woke up again and dragged myself out to do laundry and go grocery shopping because these are the things that make up a Life, apparently, and then I came home and went back to sleep, because honestly, what else was I supposed to do? Walk around the 300 square feet of my apartment again? Watch the same tv show again? Try to work on the same project again?
