What is the meaning of life?

Or, what makes life worth living?

For me, it may have something to do with enjoyment. But not the hedonist kind. I mean, hedonism is fun, too. I guess I mean more like presence. The feeling of experiencing life directly.

Although, I know it’s never possible to completely experience life directly.

It’s more like a logarithmic function, where my experience of life approaches a limit of directness. I can get very close to that limit, but can never directly touch it.

That’s the kind of enjoyment that gives this inherently meaningless life meaningful. And by meaningful I mean it makes life worth living. It makes life crack open and charge forth with light and color and wholeness and sound and joy.

I keep trying to list instances of this feeling, but examples fail. They pale. They make it seem as though circumstances have anything to do with it, which reduces what it really is, which is immutable and everything and infinite.

It’s not just the experience of pure connection with a friend, or seeing my partner afresh, or taking in the breeze in its entirety.

It’s the psychological-spiritual state that allows for those direct experiences.

That, my friends, is something of the words that point to the meaning of life — the stuff that makes life worth living.