I read an article this morning. The writer told a story about her hardest night since she had a job. I can infer from it that it was an incident which has had no small influence on her life. Moreover, she seems proud of overcoming the night, saying that the night has made her what she is today. Every time I read this kind of story, where the writer preaches about how meaningful the life can be, I feel sick and want to say yuck. Then, I feel like writing an article to preach about how meaningless a life can be. This tendency is lamentable, for what is the use of convincing others who believe in the meaningfulness of life and enjoy their life that their life is, in fact, destitute of meaning? The reason for this propensity is merely that I cannot, for the life of me, give my life any meaning recently.