Sometimes amidst our busy lives we pause for a moment and allow the pervasive existential angst at the back of our minds to surface, to join us in our brief and bleak perception of our minute fragment of reality.
Day after day we go about our daily tasks, our duties, our lives. Yes, we are living, and not a moment too soon. We must continue living, continue toiling upon this mortal coil that brings us happiness and sorrow.
Once in a while we allow ourselves to ask: is there a purpose to it all?
Like this carelessly outlined rabbit, are we created to have reason and meaning? Or is it on a whim? A fluke of brushstrokes and a triumph of probability, never again to occur?
Are we but an imperfect creation? Are we destined for greatness? Or do we exist simply to provide for our cats?