My question - that which at the age of fifty brought me to the verge of suicide - was the simplest of questions, lying in the soul of every man from the foolish child to the wisest elder: it was a question without answering which one cannot live, as I had found by experience. It was: “What will come of what I am doing today or shall do tomorrow? - What will come of my whole life?” Differently expressed, the question is: “Why should I live, why wish for anything, or do anything?” It can also be expressed thus: “Is there any meaning in my life that the inevitable death awaiting me does not destroy?

Leo Tolstoy in A Confession (1882)

[I’ve asked this question a hundred times.]

predatorywaspobserver

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