is there any meaning in life?

you know... after hearing my lecturers about samuel beckett, i'm starting to wonder if there really is any real meaning to life. do the things that we cling to have meaning because we want to cover the illusion that life really has no meaning to begin with? it makes sense to an extent. to beckett, human communication is rubbish. do we really mean what we say sometimes? like good morning for example. do we really mean it when we wish it to someone? or do we want something else? food for thought... "nothing is funnier than unhappiness, i grant you that. yes, yes, it's the most comical thing in the world," says beckett. wash aside that bitter aftertaste you just felt when reading his seemingly cruel comment. yeah, it's a rather brutal comment. but let's think about it from his perspective... if life is as meaningless as beckett claims it to be, then why are we getting so upset over things for? what's the point in it? think a guy furiously punching and kicking at thin air... that's what beckett is saying. we're shadowboxing sometimes, getting upset over things that sometimes don't really matter. if anyone has heard the myth of sisyphus, you'll get what i mean. sisyphus was condemned by the gods for leaving the underworld and refusing to return to roll a boulder up a slope in the afterlife. only to have it slide down, and go down and start again. for eternity. yes... as rowan atkinson say, is "which i hardly need remind you, is a heckuva long time." up, down. up, down. rinse, repeat.

are we going through life the way sisyphus is? endless repition... on and on... without a real purpose? that we're struggling so much, for nothing in the end? it really makes one wonder... is this meaningful life we all have, just a mirage of our parched minds, thirsting for purpose? why do we bother? why do we try so hard? when ultimately it could all be for nought?

if you're starting to wonder if i have converted over to beckett's school of thinking, the answer is no. i still feel my life has meaning. so what if it is ultimately an illusion. i'm the boss of myself, i feel what i want to feel, i say what i want to say(though sometimes veiled), i do what i wish(school doesn't apply there). and in all i do, all i say, all i feel, i have the ability to give it meaning to myself, to fashion it to suit whatever way i see it fit. not you. not him. not her. not any tom, dick or harry on the street. it's mine, and makes me me. just like you are what makes you you. like camus says in his essay, one must imagine sisyphus happy.