Sometimes it helps to just write simple things. Things that are fruitless and meaningless, devoid of any substance in which you can chew on, and slippery to still spill your coffee when you come across it.
Life is like that. Inherently meaningless and yet so slippery to easily find various forms of meaning within it. The universe doesn’t give a shit about you but still its there.
In all things, we seek to find patterns. It is melted in our brain meat. Embedded into what it means to be human. What is apparent chaos must be ordered into meaning. You’ll see it when you stare into the abyss, stare deeply into the sky at night and we have constellations, during the day, you find clouds that resemble things.
People are always seeking this meaning, these patterns, as if it is inherently part of what it means to be fundamentally human. We are here though and stuck with this version of consciousness, should we attempt to make it meaningful?