Struggling

Funny Thing,

I've spent a large amount of time pondering over the abstraction "a life". "a person". "a meaning". I don't know what any of them mean. I am at a loss for what it all means. I am at a loss for what I am in relation to it all. I am seizing for that "powerful play" of life, but I only find these humble wanderings that result in seemingly: nothing. So what do we do? We trudge on, through the mud, through the pain, to find that meaning at the end. And what if we find it? Are our lives enriched by this post hoc knowledge? Does it make anything more meaningful? Or are we left with a sweet aftertaste to a bitter sustenance? (This is, of course, to say nothing of if we don't find any meaning: That would
be too much.) So what do we do? What do I do?

I write this, I feel this, and immediately I know that I have something, feel something, beyond the ebb and flow of loss and gain in life. The power of existence is that our desperation is our own, that our pain is in our hands. When we feel useless it is because we feel subjected to the whims of outside forces, committed to a course beyond our control. Nothing is beyond our control. Our minds create the world, shape it, mold it, destroy it. We must control ourselves. Outside forces contribute, but it is our choices that separate us from insanity. When we are buffeted by the world, it is the conscious act of walking forward that grants us happiness. It is the act of being that we must assert if we are to remain sane.