Life. It’s so simple yet so complex. So cliché. So novel. Refreshing and terrible. To write about life is almost unfair because there is no way to describe it. There has not been a single person in existence that has not once thought about the meaning of life. Why are we here? Many have also answered. Many have fought and cried and even died by their philosophies of life. So what is the point of writing about it?
Even if we look at science, which prides itself on definitions, it does not have a definition. There is still no universal definition. Life is often defined in basic biology textbooks in terms of a list of distinctive properties that distinguish living systems from non-living. Although there is some overlap, these lists are often different, depending upon the interests of the authors. Some biologists and philosophers even reject the whole idea of there being a need for a definition, since life for them is an irreducible fact about the natural world. Others see life simply as that which biologists study. After scouring the internet for a definition the best I could find is that “Living organisms are autopoietic systems: self-constructing, self-maintaining, energy-transducing autocatalytic entities”
So as we can see there is no simple way of defining life. So now the discussion comes to its purpose. Simply put there is no purpose. Life is here to make more life. It is clear that all emotions and feelings in a human body are just chemical reactions. Therefore, everything that we are, what we hope for, what we think, and want, it is all deriving from small elements in our body that react with each other. For example even love is just a chemical reaction that your body puts in place to encourage reproduction. It all comes back to the will to sustai ...