The Meaning of Life

If I asked you a question about the meaning of life, what would you say? Would you describe life as events trapped inside an hourglass? Or would you describe life as being meaningless? Would you paint a picture of how life should look in the eyes of a person who has lived life, cherishing every moment until death reveals its face? Would you tell a tale of harmony wrapped in heavenly fleece, disguising the truths of harsh deaths and misery amongst all? Would you give life meaning by describing a frail branch drifting through a river plunging over a waterfall into a pond of glowing purity? Or would you give false implications of how your life was gloriously gloom? Can life be described in words? Or, are pictures better narrators of epic tales of adventurous dreams told through the eyes of deception? I ask again, never needing an answer of how we as people could never grasp the meaning of such complicated blends of emotion, glittered in majestic images of glee, spawned by inspiration of a written symphony or a splashed canvass of pure erudition. Share with me your edition, your journal of how life begins and ends. Tell me the answers of why life never extends beyond its time. Show me the pure footsteps along the sands of evolution, creating a timeline of existence. Help me understand how death can be the end of everything, or the beginning. Give meaning to my life by sharing yours, lending me your eyes as to walk a mile in your shoes. Help me harvest ideas of forgiveness as those notions pass gently through my soul. Help give pleasure to my pain allowing no more hurt or suffering. Open your warmth into my life, never again fearing the end, only embracing the inevitable.