The Meaning of Life
There was a man, or so I had heard, who having learnt the meaning of life started crying and had never stopped. To this day he cried, his tears bringing rain into the world.
Finding him was my quest.
Across wide, wide rivers and tall, tall mountains I trekked to find him sobbing atop a peak in the clouds.
“I once stood as you do now and I was told ‘You may only ask three questions,” he wept.
“What is the meaning of life?”
“To remain, preserve, continue, to live,” he snivelled. “But you ask the wrong question.”
“What is the result of living?”
“Death. One last question, please,” he begged, “Don’t be hasty with it.”
“What did you ask?”
“What is the purpose of living.”
“What is the purpose of living?”
“No more questions. Anyway I was wrong. Like you I asked the wrong questions. I searched for a man who knew the meaning of life and through his tears he told me this: People will come, to ask, to demand, to threaten but the one thing they will never do is ask why you are crying. And that is the answer to your question.”
I started to cry.
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