How Can This Be Meaningless?

This is all so beautiful, so fraught with meaning and profound resonance. How can it be meaningless? There is so much discovery, so much revelation; the layers of the onion of the self are peeled back, naked truths are realised, and so much perspective is gained; it becomes clear how my life went wrong, and what it is I have to do to make it better, so it is more attuned with everything, more in harmony with all. I have learned to love, and the nature of compassion is clear; unconditional love is truly unconditional, and I am able to practice this, seemingly without much effort, despite liking and disliking those others in my life. I see clearly that the suffering I have gone through was a gift, despite the vulnerability, despite the injustice of it; I can also forgive my own crimes, perpetrated in a state of illness and fear. There is truly compassion for myself, and compassion for others. How can this be meaningless? The feelings are so sweeping, so profound, have such depth and breadth. How can they be the same as anything else? How is it they are no more moving and miraculous than the stain on the carpet or the insect crawling toward the stain? The answer is: the story can be about miracles, resonances, deep feelings of love and acceptance, or about an insect crawling on the carpet. The story can be deeply moving or exceedingly ordinary. But it is just a story, no matter how moving, no matter how mundane. The miracle is that anything appears to exist at all. There is the story of scientists looking closely at the very nature of matter, getting into the sub-atomic level of the manifestation, and seeing that unless there is someone observing it, there is nothing there. All there is, is this.