Life is plenty pointless, I've found. We're all put here on this plane of existence, such a minuscule thing, really. This tiny consciousness, in the midst of an ever-larger universe. Put here for reasons unbeknownst to us, reasons that may not even exist. And, above all that, we try so hard to discover things, to try to create the greatest new thing, to learn everything, to find answers. But those answers are pointless. Because one day, this world will end. And whatever mark we may have thought we left, will vanish, like it was never even there.
So picture this; a wave. In the ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And it's there. And you can see it, you know what it is. It's a wave. And then it crashes in the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while. You realise then and there that the wave is one conception of death: it returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be. The good place.
