So this book I've been reading is a bowl of laughs. Its premise is that there is no purpose to life, it's all an illusion perpetrated by adaptation to make us get out of bed, and if you can't deal with it, there's Prozac.
Here's a quote from it:"Introspection can't provide a good reason to go on living because there isn't any. ... But introspection keeps hoping, looking, trying to find a reason to go on. Since there really isn't one, those who look hard eventually become troubled."
Troubled is a nice way of putting it. The first quote is a lyric my son kept coming back to, so much so that he joked he would have it tattooed on his forehead. I said in my book that he wasn't well-adjusted, that he couldn't be fooled. He saw through the meaninglessness of it all. He didn't buy into the whole getting out of bed for no reason but to perpetuate a bunch of molecules. Of course, any body wants to keep going, but he fooled his by driving it to death. No, he didn't will it, because there is no free will, but he slipped one by evolution.