Weep, oh my children, for those who will never find their meanings in life.  Weep ye, oh my people, for the masses who wander, aimlessly, upon the severed shore of life and existence, streaking constantly towards the inevitable end and anticipating it not.  Those souls, lost in a wonderland of sight and sound and comfort, taking into themselves the knowledge of the ages, passed onto them by other lost wanderers who have fought the battle and comprehended it not.  Blind swords to ghostly foes they have valiantly struggled for the redemption from sins unknown and from trials unexperienced.  

And yet, shine as they do in the dusk of the evening, their countenance overflowing with joy unearned, they strive towards that goal conceived by the world into existence.  For is there one singular place, one existence which we all could embrace as the Truth of our time here in this cursed reality? As sure as they world mumbles to itself that there must be, has to be, some larger meaning and purpose in this pursuit, they step on their toes, exposing themselves to the chilling winds of indifference, blisslessness, and apathy.  The ice bites under fingernails and whistles in the veins as it travels towards the frozen pond of humanity.  

Below me I see the glittering of rocks encased in a forever tomb, locked in a position from which they cannot escape or hope to be rescued.  Small children emerging from the womb of innocence, bright eyes to the daylight, find only a immutable prison where mind and spirit are allowed outside to play only at recess.  Why must this struggle to free the very core of what we are and have be centered upon the betterment of the world as a whole? Are we no more than cogs in the great watch of the Universe, ticking away - Nay, only helping in the ticking, redundant in our nature so as to be thrown aside at the first, last, or next opportunity which the world has to improve its perspective on wisdom.   Yet we are urged, coddled, directed into a path of our choosing but not of our understanding to pursue the life which supposedly brings goodness to all mankind and their Purpose.  

Purpose, as it is, drives us all, blindly, towards what we do not honestly conceive.  Purpose is that which fries our hearts and minds in a single, solitary position of charred agony, a screaming corpse on the neverending road.  Driven by this almighty god and conceiver, we are pushed forward, through the hose, the end in sight near the fall into despair and death.  

My mind screams in its cage, driven by an urging beyond that which I cannot conceive.  Standing and bellowing to the milling crowd, it yells, "STOP!!! You've got it all wrong!" And yet, as the words shine from the cracked lips of hope, it is a reality within that phrase that I, too, have it wrong.  The fact that the very "IT" remains unknown, unexplored, and unanalyzed is something to consider severely.  

The meaning of life? BAH.  None has found that so far and none ever will.  The purpose of existence? Unlikely, and the only decent refrains would be those from poorly formulated theodicies and treatises on meaning.  What is the it? That we first must discover or the rest falls by the wayside to be kicked from sight in favor of a rock more brilliant, more gleaming, free from an existence it never knew it was constrained in.  

Weep, oh my children.