It wasn't exactly a revelation, but I woke up one morning not so long ago and realized that what I've known for years is true. My life is empty and meaningless.
I don't hate my life, but I don't love it. I'm busier than I was 10 or 15 years ago, but my life isn't any more fulfilling or satisfying. It's less so, and it's harder to go through the motions the older I get.
I never wanted children of my own, but parenting is a disease many American adults seem to be afflicted with. Raising children and working tirelessly to provide for them seems to drive plenty of people. I'm selfish, I have no interest in wiping a crying baby's butt.
And I'm not too concerned with my legacy. I don't need people talking about me when I die. I don't need a scholarship fund in my honor. Sure, I'd like to be remembered as the guy who cured cancer, but that's not going to happen. And I'm fine with that.
Years ago I realized that the one thing that would seem to inspire me, make my life worth living, is living it for somebody else. Knowing I was the most important person in somebody else's life seemed like the one thing that would make my life meaningful. But I've failed to achieve that. So now I wonder what I'm living for. The answer: nothing.
This doesn't make me sad. It doesn't make me happy, but I'm not having a tough time getting out of bed. Well, no more so than usual.
Are there people who go through life without a sense of purpose, yet have no problem with that. Are there people who don't care that their life is a series of motions? I think so. But I'm not one of those people.
After 40 years I'm done hoping, praying, wishing and waiting for a purpose. I'm one of those people who has none. I use to worry about the future. Now I don't have to.