In case you missed it, here is the description:
It's a miserable thing, life is. To keep going waiting for the cuts to heal but end up getting more instead. I always thought I would go out swinging. I thought my life would be grand and meaningful, but now I wonder if my story will even make it into the footnotes. I fear that just the crushing weight of mundanity is enough to snuff me out. Where has my fight gone? My drive? My hope? It all seems like apathy now.
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I'm not a writer. I'm hardly a reader, but this book will be my story, or rather my diary. I hope someone finds a meaning in it.
I know that makes it sound like I think my life doesn't have meaning, and people immediately assume that I have deep depression. So let me clear the air with a question. Dear reader, what meaning does your life have?
Does it mean anything to have a family? To love or be loved? To make money? To live long? To do good? To help people? To hurt people?
Good or bad, does having a purpose give life meaning? If so, what does it mean? What is the consequence of your existence? Or is there one?
If you have an answer, to any of it I would love to hear it. Even if I agree or disagree, I'm hungry for a new perpective.
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