There is a Delusion. A Delusion Called Life.

There is a delusion. A delusion called life. How we live it, what we do with it, and how we take it. We try, all of us do, try to live. We try to ride life out as best as we could. We move forward, convincing ourselves that our life has meaning. That in this world, that being one of almost seven billion people existing in this very moment, we matter. We look for meaning. We look for purpose. We seek out the things which make us happy. We find ourselves drawn to people who put a smile on our faces and make us forget about the question of why we even try to live.

The world we live in has created so many avenues of diversion for us to pursue while we are still breathing. As children, we dream of what we want to do when we grow up. We dream of what we want to be. The life we want to live. As we grow older, we try to pursue that dream. Perhaps the thought that we are doing what we want to do assures us of the significance of our existence.

We look for things which give us purpose. People, religion, professions—anything we can grasp to make us believe that nothing we do is in vain. That nothing is taken for granted. We live out this illusion. We live out the illusion that is life.

Eventually we find peace in our fantasy. There are all sorts of reasons that people conceive to make themselves believe that it all means something. That life means something. We hold on to the things we are passionate about, and when we can no longer hold onto that, we try and move onto something else. Another thing, another dream, to give us that sense of direction. All for this delusion. This delusion called life.

And yet are we really any more significant than the tree standing tall in our backyards? If one would take the time to consider the reality of how things are, one cannot say that the tree has no significance whatsoever. It gives shade, cleans the air, and maybe even bears fruit for that occasional pie or drink that will be of use to us. It is not that we are without purpose or meaning. It is only that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, which we can say for certain, that truly sets us apart from everyone else. But then again, perhaps to another person, a life we have touched, we matter. And yet one has wonder, if our life is significant because it gives another’s life purpose, what is that person’s life significant for? Or is significance only another thing that this world has created to keep us moving forward?

No one can be so certain as to claim to know the real reason we exist. But each of us finds little things which we can believe to be a reason to live. No reason is better than the next. Everything is subjective, and everything is consequential.

We move forward because we must. We live because there is nothing else for us to do. We make do with what we have and try to be happy because the alternative is too dismal a thought to consider. We are in this world, and we were never given a choice in the matter.

So we create this delusion. And we have called that delusion life.