The Tragedy of Meaning
Do you have a meaning of your life? Are you living or making a living? Do you think there should be a meaning in your existence? Questions are many, the answers only a few: a person of meaning finds it the hard way, not necessarily knowing if he knows it or not
There is only one thing he would not do—ever stop making each moment so special that he wants his life to be. So he does, make things special so much that he can see the whole world through them loud and clear.
What Tomba would do in parts will add up to the whole. He cares for the attention to detail, so optimistically against the odds and blocks that many people find in their diurnal lives. At least, that is how he finds the meaning of his existence—he finds it more when he works, when he makes effort, when he seeks for it in pedantic adventures and chitchatting with the informed folks.
It has been a remarkable journey, from university where he had found the essence in every dusty books, to his full-time job in which again, he has found the path to his salvation; however, not so soon as his enemies would want him to be, and not necessarily sharing the same destination with them.
He thumped, "Life is good," when one of his friends murmured and grumbled that life has no meaning.
"Tell me one good reason why there is no reason," everyone hesitates with Tomba's typical retort. "Your views are a royal fuck." He says it in a politically correct way.
"Good evening." His friend greets him.
"Keep the formalities for the gentlemen."
"You should stop coercing the meanings out of our lives."
"Fair enough." He continued, " Work hard and the whole world conspires to be on our side. As much as our predictable life, so is our energy boost from the hordes of things we care to do: like ignore the bad company, consider work is worship, respect the people, do no wrong and what not. The bulleted list of things to do are the purposes of our life. I'm not even sure you have the list."
"You are no better than Sisyphus. No matter what."
With that kind of response, he spoke at length about where he is, he ought to be and where the others are, where they ought to be. The night ended with another victory for Tomba. He always win because he has the meanings up his sleeves. He has the purposes etched down his thought so clear as new glasses as well.
That's how he would start the day, as the butterflies outshine with their heart-rendering colours while the sun shines cheerfully. That he might know unclear, though he do know the right path to do something remarkable for the day. The lived experience of three decades was seemingly more important than seeking for elusive answers. Last night was just one among the listless distraction from those who cannot figure out whether they are living or just surviving.
"See these are different things. You live to exist. You make a living to continue. You survive to make sure you are living, but you cannot simply draw a line between these three facts. You heard it, the three goes together," he would tell his girl.
From his childhood days, it has always been the same for Tomba. Certainly, there are things like karma. You get what you give. That's life.
Early morning today, he got up—a long time ago, he had made the alarm clock redundant; such is his perfect lifestyle. It is time for his morning jogging. What is life without a healthy body; it is true health is wealth.
Now at the street corner, when a speeding moped lost control and hit him from the side, Tomba lost everything. It was so unfair. In each step in his everyday life, he had always been cautious, sometimes much to the delight of the Perfectionist Anonymous. It was different today.
He is gone, forever gone today. His lifeless body is the symbol of a world so senseless that his mortalised body would even understand not. When death knocks on the mortal door, all the meaning ceases.
What is left behind is an unknown world—the place it used to be when we were nonexistent. I doubt, Tomba would be watching these absurdities from the clear azure skies. It is even possible that the world do not exist when we are gone. It exists just because of each one of us, the individuals.
Would he have found the meaning to his life, if not the essence of his attention to detail, his industriousness, his faiths and beliefs, his aims and aspirations so on and so forth? What is the special meaningful thing?
Possibly, there is some meaning in the things he do, which are highlighted by the purposes. Possibly, there are only purposes. That's how Tomba found the meaning as much as the interests in his life. It was not really Sisyphus, who was lost in a vicious cycle of his lifetime and had immersed in the ascending and descending slopes of his existence.
In a few days, his friends will be expressing their condolences as they would feast in the name of a dead friend. And life goes on. Unsurprisingly.