Admit. You hardly have a clue to what life is about. It is truly a mystery to you.

Every now and then you feel you have a grasp of it, and then the rug is pulled out from under you, and you are bewildered.

You seek to know the meaning of life, and yet the meaning slips and slides away from you. Just when you think you have it, it flies away.

You are the meaning, beloveds. It is yourself that you seek. It is yourself that is elusive. You catch glimpses and cannot quite see enough. You dance before yourself, and you dodge yourself.

The relative world is made up of great beauty. The possibilities are endless. And those endless possibilities also include an aspect of life in the world that shows itself as one inanity after another, one irony after another, one joke after another. Who could have ever imagined the preposterousness of life? Who could have imagined that such absurdity could also coexist with all the love and beauty that make up the world?

All is a metaphor. Your life tells a story. And there is significance to your story beyond the story itself.

What if your life is an epic poem? There are words in poetry, but the poem is far greater than the words. Or your life is a many-paged novel. This or that act is committed, but the act represents something more than itself. What is the meaning beyond the meaning?

Your life is a tale being told.

Each day is a new leaf of a novel whose page you turn. There is more to reading the novel than reading its pages.