It is pointless to hide my pessimistic view of the world, a view that took shape in time and it’s very hard to shake away – too many compromises, too many mistakes, too many unfulfilled dreams, too much reality.
Normally I should give up on everything and throw myself off a bridge, but despite all this, I keep soldiering on, sustained not by the hope of success, but by the feeling of responsibility; responsibility for the world that made me. I am part of the world I live in (all of it, from family to galaxies); I am made by it, shaped by it – and in a larger sense – a manifestation of it. I exist because “it” deems that I should exist and thus, in turn I work for it – in a loose sense I could say I feel responsible for making a “better world”. From another perspective, I could argue that if the purpose of my life is meaningless then my existence must be pointless, but if that was true then I wouldn’t exist – since nothing exists by chance, it’s all caused by something (see theoretical physics).  Thus, if I am here then there’s must be a point to all this, unless of course the universe is one big joke, which may very well be.
Thus, I keep rolling on thinking that one day, the world that made me will require me to give something back, here’s to  “hoping an inch of good is worth a pound of years” (Ray Bradbury).