“Why do I do anything?” This question has occupied my thoughts for a long time, as though I must assign meaning to my actions—meanings that must sometimes align with common values to be understood. It often feels as if my existence requires justification, like the desire to reproduce or to create value for society. But in truth, “living” itself does not require a reason or meaning; it is simply an experience. The harshest and inevitable end of life is death, and since that end is predetermined, my actions are not for the sake of the end, but for the experience of the journey towards it. I refuse to impose limits on myself or demand reasons for my existence, because every day I am alive is time I have gained before the end arrives.
