The Meaning Of

During a discussion about the meaning of life with my friend, we somehow began writing this story. I would write an installment, and then she would, completely making it up as we went. This is the result. Basically, for 70 some years, my friend searches for the grand question and answer to the meaning of life. Finally, after all that time, we come in contact again.

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I was 92. I had lived 92 years. What if that was it, and I died today? Would it all have been worth it? I pondered the question. I had felt love. I had felt pain. I'd done some awful things, but I had also achieved some great successes. Of what does one measure a life? Legacies, perhaps. Does your life live on in the form of your children? Human connections, maybe. Did the friends I made and the relationships I formed really matter? A life could be measured by knowledge gained, or experiences had, or feelings felt, or burdens carried, or... Or all of the above. In the end, we don't know for sure until it's too late. We only realized what we've accomplished once we're dead. No one else would ever know. And as time goes on, there will be no one else who will care. Everything and nothing. Around and around it went. Life was all just a big freaking game. 

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