Our life is made of time. Unfortunately for us, time is fleeting. Unlike our life, time can flow as long as there is a Universe. But even if our live would last as long as the Universe itself, it would still be short, because we are satisfied only by the infinite.
Now, leaving aside the fact that life is so short, there is something in the way we live our life that makes it even more pitiful. We spend our life in a perpetual waiting for…something else. There are, of course, islands in time in which we are fully content, moments that we would like to last forever. Moments like being in love in Paris or, for that matter, in any other place on Earth. Or having a vacation in an exotic destination. But these are
but short stops in which we catch our breath and start running again. Life, as it is, is but perpetual motion towards an unknown and unknowable destination. We die as unfinished projects and this is what makes every death so tragic. In the whole history there was nobody who got there. May it be with life also as it is with any other thing? The meaning of a thing is always outside the thing itself. The meaning of a knife is in it’s ability to cut bread or human flesh. Thus, the meaning of a knife is not in the knife, but in something outside it. Logic would have us believe that the meaning of life is not in anything in life, but can we even imagine anything outside life? The meaning of life would be life itself only if life would be eternal, but since life is limited in time, it cannot be so. It looks like time is the enemy of the meaning of life, not time itself but fleeting time which makes life fleeting.
And most of the time it is we who are the greatest enemies of the meaning of our lives. When we live for the next second and neglect the present one, we contribute in making our lives shorter than they already are. In doing this we take the end and bring it into our lives before is actually ending time. But we are beings who feed on hope and hope is always something pertaining to the future. To make our lives meaningful, that is, to make peace with time, we would have to give up hope. But without hope, what is life? It is now clear that we are dealing with a paradox. To live is to hope, but to hope is to jump out of life. So it is life who is pregnant with it’s own meaningless. Or is it just a signal to a meaning beyond? Beyond what? The end.