It was a scene from Planet Earth II that I was watching on Netflix. The scene unfolds in the vast, unforgiving savanna. A herd of buffaloes is charging toward a distant stream, the only water source for miles. The harsh dry season has left them desperately thirsty.
Among them, a lone bull ambles separately from the group. Perhaps its confidence keeps it solitary, or maybe it has simply lost its way.
Unbeknownst to the bull, a pride of hungry lions lies in wait, hidden behind the tall grass. They’ve been patiently waiting for days, knowing their prey must come this way to quench its thirst. They are starving and cannot let this opportunity slip away. A single meal can mean the difference between life and death in the jungle. Their eyes are fixed on this solitary target.
And so begins the battle for survival—the age-old struggle for existence that has operated for millions of years. It is the timeless cycle of life in which one life ends to provide sustenance for another to continue a little longer.
The bull is heavy and seasoned, equipped with survival skills learned through years and honed by millennia of evolution. It has seen many battles like these and possibly maneuvering escape from some itself. But the lions are also skilled and persistent, with skills handed over from the same mother Nature.
The fight is brutal and swift. The bull’s life—a culmination of years spent roaming the earth—is extinguished in a mere three minutes. Its body, now a source of raw sustenance, fuels the lions’ continued existence, at least for a while.
The camera then pans to the horizon, where water merges with the sky under the blazing sun, and a new episode begins. The documentary shifts focus, this time to the story of survival in the frigid expanse of Antarctica, where a solitary polar bear hunts for food. It spots a seal on a floating piece of ice—a glimpse of hope in an unforgiving landscape. For the seal, it may be the end of everything.
Yet, even these predators will eventually succumb to the cycle of life, their bodies breaking down and being consumed by bacteria and microbes. Meticulously crafted from atoms and molecules, life inevitably returns to its elemental form.
What, then, is the purpose of all this?
The bull, in its final moments, surely did not contemplate this question. Nor did the lions. They live and die as Nature dictates, without pondering existential questions. Lucky they are. But I, a human, cannot escape such inquiries.
I turn my gaze away from the TV. I look out the window as cars pass by, one after another, through the long shadows cast by tall buildings under the setting sun. It is late afternoon, and people are returning home from their jobs, from offices and workplaces. They will have dinner, perhaps watch Netflix, spend time with loved ones, and prepare for another day, much like today. They love and work hard to maintain comfort for themselves and those they care about.
Yet, inevitably, they too will face the cycles of life’s suffering—loved ones battling cancer, sudden heart attacks, tragic accidents. No one can truly save another. All lives, no matter how beautiful they seem, will end in death. What, then, is the meaning behind this ceaseless cycle?
Maybe that’s why someone once declared, “The dead, who have already died, are happier than the living, who are still alive. But better than both is the one who has never been born, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun.”
Suddenly, my attention shifts to a puppy peering through the window of a car. Small and full of life, it is eager to absorb all of this world with curious eyes. Does it ponder the meaning of the things it sees? Likely not, yet it watches with immense curiosity and enthusiasm.
Curiosity is nothing but a mechanism for understanding the world so that it can devise strategies to extend its existence. Yet, setting aside this biological imperative for a moment, here is a puppy, a bundle of atoms and molecules, observing its surroundings with wonder. This simple act of perception—one part of the world perceiving another—is not profoundly beautiful?
Is there more to life than living itself? Life, from its most basic to its most complex forms, is designed to perpetuate itself, to survive moment by moment. But in this act of living, we are granted the ability to sense the world around us. Isn’t that enough?
I, another collection of atoms and molecules, formed from elements that were once part of rivers, mountains, the sky, trees, and other animals, now exist for a fleeting moment in the grand timeline of the universe. Yet, this collection can see, hear, and love. Do I need more than this?
Now, I recall another philosophy that asserts mere existence is meaningful in itself—we require nothing more.
Indeed, there are probably only two philosophical paths: either we find no meaning in life at all or see the mere act of conscious existence as meaningful. We have got to choose one for ourselves. What would you choose?
