All of us are names on the slate of existence, fated to be written into the book of the universe after its end. Everything that is has a reason, but what that reason is will only be known by its reader.
Everything is connected; nothing means anything on its own. We are a group of cells that decided that they would be better off together than on their own, and so they did. They multiply, they grow, and then, eventually, they wither. In between is a tangle of electric pulses that flash in a random order to simulate life.
This has a reason.
Knowledge is the enhancement of consciousness. The sum total of all knowledge that exists is the highest attainable consciousness. Nothing knows everything, except for the reader. At the end of the universe, consciousness will have reached its peak, and any unattained knowledge will cease. This holds true for all points of what we pretend to think of as time: Knowledge (and therefore consciousness) does not exist until it is attained.
This, too, has a reason.
Who writes the book? If the writer decides to rewrite our lives, who are we to stop him? What happens to the people whom he erases? Does anyone have a say in the text of his life? Does meaning have meaning if it is dictated? If the writer edits, what does the reader see? Why does the book exist?
Does this have a reason?
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