I feel a deep resentment toward the implication that pointlessness is bad. Oftentimes I will find myself in some conversation or another about the meaning of life or the universe, and people will respond with disdain or discomfort toward my sincere belief that life and the universe are pointless and unfeeling. I do not think that such a reality is bad. In fact, I think that it is exceedingly beautiful.
When we as humans try to place ourselves, or our God, into the center of the universe then we rob it of so much beauty. How vain and simple would our universe but if it had a point, goal, or design?
I would not want to live in a universe that had purpose. That would, in essence, make me into a tool. Instead, I think that there is such wonderful beauty in the nothingness of it all. I find comfort in the pointlessness and inevitability of death. How many men have wasted their given days in search of the approval of a God, or of other people? What good is the praise of others on the cosmic scale?
I am content to look up at the stars and know that it means nothing. Entropy will be the final victor, at which point our thoughts, beliefs, accomplishments, and contentedness will cease to be.
Does life matter?
It seems to me that there’s no concrete way to argue so, except that other life might value it out of a fear that it itself may, indeed, be of no matter. The beat of my heart is just as pointless and random as a wave crashing upon a shore, or of a dust storm on Mars, or of a ball of ice hurdling through the cosmic emptiness some hundred light years away.
There is no point. There is no purpose. There simply is.
I wish I could show you.