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William Shakespeare.
(Chandos Portrait) |
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
(W. Shakespeare, 'Macbeth'. Act v, scene 5)
There is little to add really to this masterly definition of the futility of life. Indeed, two things inexorably invalidate any purpose and meaning life can have: ageing and death (not to mention diseases), so any quest for purpose of life is a total waste of time. Still, as self-aware beings the thinking humans have always pondered on this question. It hurts to accept that our life has no
Meaning or
Purpose at all, so we desperately try to at least build up an illusion. Throughout the history of mankind the belief in afterlife and eternal soul has arguably been the only source of hope that what we do in our lives signifies something, in other words, there must be someone somewhere who cares. Being unable to see the bigger picture, all we can do is merely speculate why we have been dragged into this vale of tears.
