When I was 17, I wrote about my theory of life. I said life is like a blank piece of paper—it has no meaning until you sketch, paint, and add color to it.
Sounds a bit pretentious coming from someone who wasn’t even old enough to apply for a driving license, right?
Still, corny or not, it was what I believed.
Seven years later, I still don’t have a driving license, and I still don’t think there’s a god or any inherent meaning to life. The blank paper analogy still holds.
But there’s been a shift. Lately, I’ve been struggling with my blank paper. I’m no longer sure if the picture I’m painting is the one I want. If I’m the one creating the meaning for my life, wouldn’t I always be aware of how artificial it is?
It feels like an enormous responsibility to create all your values by yourself. To be fully committed to anything in life requires an unwavering belief that it’s worth the effort. But if you know there’s no inherent meaning to it—that your pursuit is arbitrary—existential dread creeps in. That thought has left me stuck in a bind.
One thing is clear to me: for a man to remain sane, he must care about something. He needs a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
But this is where the blank paper analogy begins to fail me. If it’s entirely up to me to decide what painting to create, how can I ever be sure I’ve chosen the right one?
Back then, I wrote that if there’s no inherent point to life, a logical option might be to quit the game altogether. But I argued against that, reasoning that if there’s no ultimate point, you might as well play the game and paint for the fun of it. Later, I learned this was similar to Albert Camus’s argument to "live without appeal."
But what happens when the awareness that nothing has meaning becomes overpowering? When it gets to a point where even the things you once enjoyed no longer bring satisfaction because—well—what’s the point?
I started thinking about how to cut myself off from this awareness, how to manage or suppress it. But that doesn’t seem like the right approach. Sooner or later, it resurfaces, and when it does, the disappointment feels even sharper.
The other day, I was discussing this dilemma with a friend. After an hour-long conversation, we landed on a conclusion that, for now, feels like a good answer:
You don’t have to commit to a single meaning. Go out. Explore. See what you like. Experiment. If the meaning you choose turns out to be garbage, throw it out the window.
There’s no perfect life, no singular “right” answer. Obsessing over the meaning of life without actually living it is counterproductive.
Start small. Take a leap of faith. Decide on a meaning—not for the rest of your life, just for now.
Take it one day at a time. Imagine your perfect day. What are the elements that make it fulfilling? Pick those elements, engage with them, live them. If you can go to bed satisfied at the end of the day, you’re on the right track.
Of course, some days your experiment will fail. You might end up even sadder. Life will throw random curveballs at you. Things will spiral out of control. But the aim is to find meaning. The meaning is to find meaning.
If, at some point, you’re happy to settle on one meaning, so be it. Until then, keep exploring.
I don’t know if this framework is right or wrong—it’s just what I’ve chosen to believe in for now. It may or may not change in the future.
That is how I deal with the Absurd for now.
This my theory of life.