I pray you’ll forgive me. For what is written below is a jumbled wash of fragments construed by a woman of a meer eighteen years that had the audacity to yell into the void and demand an answer. To look upon the face of the natural world and assure herself of its intrinsic value and resolve to ascribe it purpose within the confines of a Moleskine notebook. I understand that a weighty crime of this nature demands judgement, but only ask that you withhold sentencing the accused until the pen has lifted off the page for the last time.
Somewhere deep within my constitution lays fertile an insatiable desire for purpose. Is it not true that we declare our purpose akin to that of the cosmos? To the spiritually inclined we are but pawns in the Almighty’s game. To the secularist we are but waves lapping at the evolutionary confines of the shore. So the question must be raised; what is the meaning of life? Do our lives even have meaning? This, my dear friends, is my quest. The lifeblood in my body beats in tandem with my soul on this matter alone. That two truths exist, life has meaning and that I must be enlightened to its meaning or die a pilgrim in a foreign land clutching in vain at the self-evident abyss.
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