Twelve
Often when I’m sleepless, I wonder about the purpose of life. It’s not procreation. People procreate by accident. Surely a purpose would be harder to come by than that. And it’s not child rearing, because parents mess up their kids plenty. It’s impossible to raise an ideal kid, because everybody’s ideals are different. The best you can hope for is to raise a good person, somebody productive who contributes meaningfully to the world that we live in. But even if that was the case, what are we building to? Some utopia, as displayed in the old series of Star Trek? A world without issues? That doesn’t sound too bad. I…