What is life? Is it nothing more but an endless, pointless thread where no one ever wins? Is it just a fabrication of our minds or an alternate reality created by a superior race? Or perhaps it is our denial of ourselves. Perhaps the existential debate and discussion of our existence is like that of a man attempting to write with a broken pencil. And he fails to understand what others may conceive as the simple truth. Is not our purpose but to forever carry a message with no receiver? A message that we do not even truly understand? And despite so much progress we've only really moved one step forward and twelve steps back? Are we to be left pondering our fates eternally? Would we be wrong to not consider the beliefs and the purposes of those who have found meaning? Would it be better for us to give ourselves the answer which we may not be capable of ever plainly clarifying or to forever remain in this state with no assigned purpose and no conceivable image of reality like that of an inactive computer? Then perhaps life may be what we choose to believe or not believe. Is that really the simplistic reality and not as our imaginations had made a complex expectation of the true answer. And perhaps there is no true answer. And perhaps there is.
