It Can’t. It Doesn’t.

My life has no objective purpose. It can't. It doesn't.

Factually, all of life is merely a cosmic incident hobbling along bound together by evolutionary duct tape and artifically-imposed patchwork. It works hardly and hardly works in varying degrees.

Scientifically, there is zero evidence, let alone proof, for the existence of a creator. No almighty being put us here and there is simply the almighty being that is living. An afterlife is about as far a reach as the TV remote just when you got comfortable on the couch.

But none of that means my life can't matter. It can. It does.