Ink SpillWe are creatures of labor.
We find enjoyment in fixing things, planting things, creating things.
The day only feels full when we’ve put all our sweat and breath out.
We find fulfillment in being useful.
If we stop being useful, we fall into a dark pit of depression, our body starts to ache, our face starts to wrinkle, our soul is dying from lack of meaning.
The same as our body needs to be fed by food and water, our soul needs to be nourished with meaning.
Some people inherit their meaning from their father, some take the prepackaged destiny that society gives out, some people look for a meaning their whole life, some can’t find none at all and either live out a life doing whatever they whim or kill themselves cause they aren’t able to.
Yet some do find meaning, real nourishing soothing graceful meaning.
They are the ones that are at peace.
Peace from worry, peace from not needing to follow what society deems upright, peace for having an answer, peace for staring at the mirror knowing who they really are, what their weight is, knowing if they died now, they’ll die in peace.
Meaning is a gift, for we know that truly, in the wide-galactic scale of things, we are insignificant.
Yet in our little bubble, we hope that by doing what we feel is right, our insignificance is valued by the truly significant.