I've been thinking about death for a little while now, and it's really beginning to disturb me. It all really started about 2 months ago. Now I'm going to tell a story so you can understand my perspective a little bit.
In my family, my mom's side is bad I guess you could say. Most of them are into drugs, and don't have much money. Now when my aunt Cindy was 15 (my mom was about 12), she had her first child, Shawn. He was raised by his mom for a small time (her mom wasn't involved much since she wasn't that kind of person I guess). Anyways, my mom moved in with her grandma since life at home was too much to handle I guess. She told me this story about where Shawn was 6 years old, and touched her boyfriend's motorcycle. Cindy then grabbed him by the arm, and tossed him across the room. My mom was awestruck. My mom then grabbed Shawn, and took him to her grandma's. He then spent most of his time at that house with my mom, and her grandmother(my current house). He stayed there for most of his life. Throughout high school he was a cool kid who was pretty athletic. When he graduated, he joined the Navy, and got his education there. After he was done with it, he got married to his beautiful wife, and began work on laser-eye technology crap. He ended up inventing some new thing, and started making 20,000$ a month. During this time he was also in a tribute band, and began to get into drugs. This continued for a while, and he transformed into a different person. He left his wife and daughter, and started going on vacations a lot. During this time none of our family was in contact with him. A lot of time passed. Several years ago my grandmother developed Alzheimer's. A few years later she died. I remember that the only time I saw Shawn was at that funeral, and I don't think I exchanged words with him. By that time he was off of the drugs, and beginning to get his life together. A few years passed (still not involved with him). As the time went by, he eventually got on meth. I think his life was basically going down the tubes. He wasn't doing his job, he was losing his house, and his whole family was in drugs. So one day he headed out into his garage, he turned his car radio to "Second Chance by Shinedown", and put it on repeat. He never puts his songs on repeat. He then turned on the car, attached a hose to the exhaust pipe, and breathed in the fumes until he died.
This person lived an incredible life despite some of the bad things he was into. Now my question is. How did his life have purpose. In 50 some years, no one's even going to remember him, or the things he did. I feel as though it's my duty to continue on his story, and never forget him, but what happens when I die? We can't do this for everyone who has ever lived. That would become meaningless, and too time consuming.
What is it that keeps us going? We're just big blobs of proteins, sugars, and many other things. We only enjoy things because our DNA tells us to. It's not actually fun, it's just put in there from the evolutionary cycle so that people have something to continue life for. If fun didn't increase our chances of survival, then we wouldn't have it. I'm not a biology major or anything, but I think I'm getting it right for the most part. Also for the argument about us being so small in relation to the universe that anything we do doesn't in fact matter. If we were exceptionally large, then how does that grant us purpose. Big loving deal, you cant move some giant rocks around. Who are you impressing? Who's watching to be proud of you?
I really do wish I could be religious. That way I could just make up some purpose I have, but sadly it's not that easy. My question is why do we persist. Why do we continue breathing. Why do we pursue lives of fame and fortune. In the end is it really going to matter?
