No meaning, really. It just is. I don't know how else to say it.
Patterns are powerful things. Combine them with memories, and you can easily paralyze a grown man, make him doubt his very reason for living. But memories are nothing more than the instantaneous quantum state of the macromolecules floating around in your brain, and the ability to recognize patterns nothing more than some fancy electrochemistry. It's all effervescent, with no intrinsic meaning, no solidity to it. For all we know, nothing is real.
Oh, the joys of rationaliztion.
What I am trying to convince myself of is the idea that nothing really means anything. (And if you think about that last phrase hard enough, you just might get dizzy.)
Seriously, though, I marvel at how easy it would be if I simply didn't care about anything. But then where would that leave me? An empty shell of a man, devoid of thought or will, a sad avolition hulk with no desire to do anything. So it's clear that lesioning my dorsolateral tracts in my prefrontal cortex won't solve my problems.
But I can't stand it. I just can't stand this feeling I get when I think about the mistakes I've made and realize that I haven't learned from them at all. I mean, why does it even matter, then?
I suppose, like always, I must just accept it. If it's not meant to be, there's no way you can force it. Still, just rereading that last sentence pisses me off. My only hope is that someday, somehow, I will actually learn.