The Meaning of Life

In one of those tempers today which means my mood has been oscillating between 'wow, isn't the world fantastic, let us all dance forever through fields of suitably waving daffodils' and then crashing towards, 'dammit, I want to sit on a grave surrounded by ravens with the wind making the trees creak above me.' I think this is partly due to my actually sitting down and doing some serious work today - principally because it finally reached the point of being non optional. I simultaneously had the great realisation that weh hey, I had the will power to do it and (honestly, from God knows where) the interest to continue, along with the thought that I really should have done considerably more work than I already have and how far behind I am. Think I haven't left it so late I can't catch up... Hope.
Anyhow, this led to a few moments of brief contemplation (didn't have time to indulge in hours of thinking time) as to why I was doing the work in the first place. Which is presumably so that one day I can get a job I find interesting and that pays enough to put a roof over my head and books on my shelves. What would make me happy? It seems to change on a daily basis. Thanks be, I have reached the realisation at a wonderfully young age that happiness is not to be found in another person - I have saved myself years of heartache and pointless romances. Some Swedish scientists recently concluded that the root of happiness is working towards (but not necessarily achieving) a particular goal, and come to think of it they are probably right. Years ago, I was given a book in which to write resolutions: 'These things I'll do...'. There is a space to write a goal, and underneath a box to fill in with date of completion and some anecdote to go alongside. Flicking through it, I'm quite impressed with myself actually with my choice of goals. Each one I've entered has been thought through, and the few that I've achieved so far I can remember filling in that box and, well, I was pretty darn happy I can tell you.
I don't profess to know what the Meaning of Life actually is. I know it has nothing to do with money or fast cars, large families and larger houses. I know the possession of 'things' has never meant much to me - beyond books, but I classify them separately, and any pleasure I get from those is rather from the knowledge within than from the physical book itself. But I do know that something that had been somewhat dormant in me for a while came back to life today as I pored over complex psychoanalytic concepts in the Social Sciences Library, seated on an uncomfortable vermilion seat in a decidedly freezing room, looking out on a grey and dismal day. There are very few things - or people - one can rely on in this world, but I was reacquainted with the most trustworthy person I know today: me. I was a little wary of 'me' for a while and tried and tested a variety of alternatives. For those of you reading this and thinking, 'God, she's finally cracked up', well, you don't understand. 'To thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' ('Hamlet', Shakespeare).

D H Lawrence, 'What would you fight for?'

I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.

I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.

Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all depends whether I found them worth fighting for.

The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.

Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.

And I must say, I am often worsted.