Even in my most lucid moments, I feel like the miniscule fleck I am when I try to comprehend the nature of existence. So why bother?, one may ask. And the answer is - a lot of the time I don't. But it is in my nature as an artist, philosopher and poet - to do so. The eternal quest for meaning, answers, validation.
It's clear to see that it is a noble pursuit but one that will never end in any lasting resolution. Don Quixote springs to mind. Glorious madman of resounding sanity! And that's how it should be, damnit! An infinite mystery, that folds in on itself, over and over, forever. Again, so why bother? Because we can. Because we must. Because we like to. Perplexed by the complex puzzle we are addicted to mortal attempts to uncover clues that will get us closer to solving it. It's something to do. Something to enjoy. It makes you feel alive. And what is being alive if not deeply speculating on what it is to be alive?
Excuse me, I think I will have some breakfast now. Philosophy so makes thee peckish.