Life can’t be easy. Amidst the struggles of growing up, of learning, of trying to be successful but never being satisfied, of finding the right life partner but never being sure, or of determining the wrongs from the rights from the greys, we are often hit by this sudden feeling of insignificance that makes us question life, its possibilities and its meaning.
Does my existence have a reason? Does life have a purpose behind it? Is there a defined destination? What part am I playing in this world? Am I special- more special than the others? Or am I just like everybody else? Is it okay to be ordinary…? And the list would never end as long as we continue to question all that is kept secret.
And just like every soul else, I too have questioned time and again: Do I matter? Is it important to matter?
More often than sometimes, I tend to come to the conclusion that life is an entirely pointless affair of birth, struggle and death. We are broken bits of stars that stumbled into earth and formed bodies for aimless souls. Even science tells us that we are made up of emptiness, which is why perhaps we try so hard to attach some meaning to our existence and connect it to the rest of the universe- we are empty inside. Purposeless and insignificant. What a depressing and humbling thought that is.
But then again, purposelessness does not deprive an object of its beauty, does it? Like art, for instance. Like stories.
We are writers. We come into this world to live a life and leave behind a story, not for the sake of the future generations but for the sake of the story in itself. And even though our biographies may never be written down into the pages of a book, they will exist because we have lived them. They will breathe. We are stories.
We are pieces of art coming together to create one beautiful masterpiece that we have named ‘universe’. We are the art and the artist too. And art does not need a reason to be. It does not have a purpose. Art just is. You are art. Be.