I've been thinking about that lately.
A couple of months back, I went through an existential crisis. I couldn't find a universal, cosmological reason for being, and, therefore, for doing anything productive. I asked myself: to what end is ouputting effort, if none of it will ultimately matter?
It took me some time – and a Viktor Frankl quote – to get out of the rut. Yes, my life doesn't matter as far as the Sun is concerned, or the black holes that make up the center of our galaxy, or the dark matter, or the next grain of sand I'll encounter... So what?
I enjoy making things. I get a kick out of it. Whenever I'm not facing the dread of failing (an excessively-frightening event that's seriously up to no good), I'm giggly about making effort towards creating something I value. Could be a short story. Could be another element of web design. Could be a philosophical paragraph or two. I enjoy it.
At some point during the bleak week, I thought of killing myself. Why bother if none of it matters the least, right? Might as well not experience any of it.
And then it clicked: it's the same fear you experience when you face the prospect of asking for something and may be rejected as a result, amplified to encompass my whole existence. It's like asking the boy/girl out, but if I'm rejected, by whole being is at stake. Like I'm going to lose myself if I make the wrong move here.
"What the fuck? I'm gonna cancel my being subscription just 'cause I'm afraid to ask the life out? Fuck no!"
What I was left with is my passion, and the fear I'm facing. I didn't just not want to die: I wanted to live. I wanted to explore, to create, to love and be loved – all a consequence of the inner passion I was afraid to realize. Why would there be need for a higher reason when, down here, I'm all good for doing something good?
Most things you face are deeply circumstantial. Life as we know it is absurd. If you want to live, you might as well live without resorting to fear as your safety net.