Can I write

It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing
My secret to happiness

What is the meaning of life? The age old philisophical question that transcends age; from the moody, hormone fueled teenage years to the mid-life crisis, it is one of the great unanswerable questions most of us seek to answer. For me, the answer is simple, life is meant to be lived.

“A naïvity coming from the mind of a youth life has yet to cripple,” I can hear the chorus of skeptics and pessimists ringing already. But, it is not from the untainted youthful hope from which I draw this conclusion, rather the epiphany from a weary voyager burdened with the assumption meaning erupts from accomplishment. Rushing from place to place, doing just to do, in the effort to give life meaning. Leaving a permanent mark on society surely gives it purpose, does it not?

It is the means, not the ends that are the meaning of life. Harrowing though it is, if life is a journey, its destination is the grave. No matter our technology, nor the individual, it is the most absolute fact of life that this end is universal. Stop and smell the roses, the cliche says; a tired expression time and repetition have exhausted of meaning, in desperate need of resuscitation through example. An idea needing to embed itself in the fabric of our being, preserved forever in our ancestral memory passed down through DNA. It needs retirement, knowing it no longer needs to be said as it is universally felt, the omniscient, ever-present force that drives our every action.

We accomplish this by adorning joy to every second gracing our presence. It is easy to start, difficult to learn, and once mastered, impossible to impede. Make play from work; write the shit out of that memo, have the first letters of every third word encode a secret message, answer that call like the host of a game show, or your favorite celebrity, stack those paper towels and cleaning pads so it becomes the cookie monster, make the business meeting a date. Race the adjacent cashier, strike up a philosophical debate with your customer. On a smoke break? Grab the nearest person and dance. Wallowing in misery? Find someone to commiserate with, have a couple drinks, laugh at yourself, tell the joyful stories of your misery. Spend your down time having a philosophical debate with yourself. Do everything and anything that makes what you're doing fun, personal, and creative. Then bring your coworkers into it, infect them with your contagious morale. Let that virus out, it feeds off itself.

Examples abound if you're having trouble starting. You know the life of the party, the guy that's drunk in sobriety? Hang around him, and let that intoxicant that is life plant your seed. Ever really watch your dog? If he's not the happiest motherfucker you've ever met, then you are a terrible pet owner. He eats, shits, sleeps, licks his balls, chases something that isn't really there, plays with whatever he can find... He accomplishes nothing (service animals the exception), but is totally, absolutely happy in that nothingness. And would he be this happy if he had to do things society demands of him? Ask those service animals, some pets do nothing but be happy around others and infect the downtrodden with it. It is not the choice of the animal to go into the hospice, he did not leave your yard and run over to a den of depression, but when he got there, he chooses to be happy. He chooses to refuse the depression, and simply goes up to people with one simple message, “Be happy.”

It's not the destination, it's the journey, carpe diem, stop and smell the roses, seize the day. Cliches, quotes, and proverbs abound but they all say the same thing, take this moment by the balls and have fun with it. Life is a symphony, your path the genre. It will be a masterpiece only if you make it so. Classical, jazz, blues, country, bluegrass, rock, rap, techno, it does not matter; it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.