The concept of life purpose is undeniably silly in many ways— deciding we exist to learn and experience works around the absurdity. What twists an otherwise valuable riddle into an enormous joke is substituting goals as purpose.
We might wish to develop skills, careers, families, but to claim we live to do any of these things dilutes the meaning of living. Achieving these goals are byproducts of maintaining your values and growing as a person, but are not the reason to. The reason is merely a spark of life hidden deep in our metaphysicality. It’s the same reason the plants grow, the birds fly, the ocean ebbs and flows with the moon— merely to be.
I’ve seen many of my supposed purposes laid before me. Some have aligned closer to my soul’s truths than others. Some have manifested into goals, because my purpose is not to bring light to purpose, or to write, or farm, or paint, or have children, or teach, my purpose is to be. This is important for me to remember in these strange and transitionary times.
Sometimes survival is the best we can manage, and our purpose truly is to survive. In those times we are still doing our best. We are brilliant, powerful facets of the universe and the universe expects nothing of itself except to continue. Even death cannot escape the cycle of nature.
What it means to live is to know that we will die, and the trees will drink the remaining energies from our abandoned bodies, and that no matter what, we will have made an impact on this place we were born to. To live is to experience what is offered and learn what we can from it, adapting and reaching for the sun as the vines do.
We are here. I am here. Our purpose is to be, and our goals keep us thinking. Puzzle and meditate upon the riddles of philosophy, that’s all it’s for.