|
This seems to be one of the insights common to those who are on-the-go as a lifestyle. Certainly was for both Thoreau and Kerouac. So you're in good company, skizz.
Life is empty and meaningless. There is no inherent meaning or value to that thing called "my self" or that thing called "my life". Any meaning we add to life is meaning WE add to life. Including (and here's where the Existentialists went off the track) despair over the meaninglessness of it. Meaninglessness doesn't mean anything either.
If you can really get that, it's VERY good news.
|