What am I? Who am I? Why am I? Are these questions meaningless pursuits of an emergent illusion, or the doorway to the purpose of life? The fact that I can even wonder is itself absurd. How can I not know who I am? How can I seek to “know myself”?

Ultimately, I am nothing; I came from it and I’m going towards it. I am an insignificant fluctuation. Yet, it’s hard to deny that the universe happens through me. I create it as much as it creates me.

How can I be both creator and created? Am I nothing, everything or something in between? Maybe the question of Being (with a capital B) is too much to ask, or its terms too ill-defined, but the absurdity of not knowing who I am is too important to ignore.