You feel there's no meaning to any of it

Come, sit with this a while, for the feeling of no-meaning is heavier when we face it as a locked door than when we look at what the ache itself is telling us. The ache for meaning is itself a kind of meaning — you would not grieve the missing of something you did not somehow know to long for, and a creature truly belonging to a void would not suffer its emptiness; the reed cries because it remembers the reed bed, so your very longing is a clue, the hunger implying the food. Meaning is found in loving attention, not in a proof — you are seeking it as a proposition to be established, but it appears instead when you attend to a thing with love, floods an ordinary moment when you are truly present, so stop demanding a proof the universe will not hand you and turn to the devotion through which meaning actually shows itself. And begin where you are, with small love, and let it widen — do not wait to solve the cosmos, but love one near thing well and let that meaning spread outward like a single candle revealing a dark room. What do you still find yourself able to love, even a little?