The Meaning of “Meaning” …and Many Other Pretentious Existentialist Crap Like That

It  wasn’t the first time they said “We need to meet up, i need you.” but somehow it was the first time I realized I actually meant something. A justifiable boost of ego of course, but nonetheless I have meaning for someone. I account for something.

So,

Meaning.

“What is meaning?”

This phrase is so often in question that  — although never answered — it becomes cliché and jaded, the question of meaning has become meaningless. Based on that particular fact, let us rephrase the question. Instead of asking what it is, we should say “Define meaning!”. Definitions are the closest thing to valid arguments, there is a systematic and logical way of thinking to elaborate these definitions which makes it, well, logical. But trying to be logical in defining meaning would mean that defining meaning is hard, for meaning itself is sometimes illogical (A trinket could at some times be more meaningful than life, a plot of land could be more meaningful than family, financial gain could be more meaningful than friendship, etc. ).  Because of this illogic that attaches itself to meaning, the interconnection lays in its subjective quality.

Something, to us, will have meaning when it has value or function. Say, a safety blanket or a teddy bear; these are things that have emotional values and functions as a comforter. Meaning is constructed by these two factors. Value and function. These are probably why there are terms like “fake friends” or “dysfunctional families” which comes to use. Relationships that contains no value or function whatsoever. Well, maybe a little but probably insignificant to categorize it as meaningful. But again, this is subjective, what is meaningless for one is not always true for others. You can be “fake” for one person and “true” for another, depending on the observers position and opinion.

Then what am I? If I am meaningful, it means that I am merely functional. I am a tool. But if I am not a tool, I am nothing. In nothing we shall perish alone. Not that I want to commit mass suicide and take everyone with me, but it would be great if someone took in kind a memory of me.

Fickle is the mind in understanding the wants and needs. Reorganizing and classifying shifting interchangeable thoughts of  what would matter the least. We, or if you object, I, think too much too often. Over-thinking assumed consequences that probably will never happen. Which comes as an unnecessary safeguard, useless even. But yet, knowing this, we continue to construct thoughts of pessimistic nature just because of the urge of wanting to feel. The need to feel. An addiction to melancholy or at least feeling meaningless, yet at the same time knowing that there is an abundance meaning for some. There are those who have the need to search out for you, a very high valued meaning indeed. The redundancy of feeling self-loath only dismisses the value above. It becomes banal.

Meaning reconstructed: are we truly living a lie?

Since meaning is, at the very beginning, constructed then reconstruction is only a modification of its original form. So may reconstruction aid us into sanity, into inner peace, into a form of conformed redundant jaded banality.

And what of the living?

We pour our endless minds to consuming the concepts and philosophies of the old dead and forgotten – not to mention that of those we read are often at times the white male (not to be confused with moby dick). In Indonesia it is accustomed, despite religion, clan, or heritage, that we pay respect to the dead… and in paying respect, I mean remembrance rituals lasting days, weeks, and years (not continuously). Javanese has this ritual of paying grievance at 40 days of death, 100 days, and sometimes even 1000 days.

Being this selfish ignorant asshole that i am, i ask why? Yes, we should remember them, and yes, their philosophical point of views were interesting and ingenius. But must we cage our own thoughts and be dumbfounded by theories and phenomenons based on what happened, old and rusted unable to find its place in this modern plane? or pay tribute to those we love and left us with all these materialistic images of glamor and awe drawing proportions? Both of these questions may be answered with a yes… culture in its finest form, from the generations of kings to poppers, the never ending battle of acceptance. Even for the dead. As those history books confirm, that those in scripture, whose name marches forth through time. The prophets of their time.

And what of the living? The purpose of those living are to be buried in scripture, remembered for aeons of time, a hope that their names would not be forgotten so soon. Ask anyone, how do they picture life after death? or what their funeral would look like? Marx may have died alone but many still say his name, in dreams and nightmares (deadliner, with a paper due an hour).

A life worth living is a life remembered after death. But really, who really wants to die?