What will your verse be?

“That you are here. That life exists and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse… What will your verse be?”

A quote that feels aempowering, hopeful, and yet utterly terrifying all at once. I remember sitting in my living room, eyes glued to the TV screen, legs crossed, as the world around me quietly fell away. Watching Dead Poets Society for the first time felt like discovering some secret reservoir of wisdom, and I drank up every word.. I imagined I was in that room, looking at Robin Williams like a prophet spreading the gospel. Then he dropped that beautiful bomb, and it hit me deep in my stomach - “What will your verse be?”- And with that, a clock started ticking- counting down.

Every minute is a reminder that I’m running out of time to make this one life worth it. To make it matter. To make it count. We all believe there is something unique about us. Of course, that’s true scientifically. But I mean it more as if we think we are destined for greatness. We feel what we were given isn’t enough. We have to squeeze something larger out of it. We fantasize that, by the end, we’ll have achieved something miraculous, something worth remembering. That our names will be more than letters etched into a decaying headstone. We hope it’s enough that we did something, whatever that even means. Still, we fear that our time on earth is forgettable. In the vast, complicated universe, we’re only a small blip.

I don’t want to frame this as a critique of mortality or of time’s cruel nature. I actually think it’s beautiful that we only get one shot at this. Life would be meaningless if it weren’t fleeting. There would be no urgency, no reason to savor the present. It seems unfair as we watch the sand seep to the bottom of the hourglass. But time running out can be a gift. It makes us hold our loved ones a little tighter. It forces us to treasure the moments we have. That undeniable truth — that one day you’ll be gone — gives them value. We, silly humans, make trivial plans and goals because of this fact. We run marathons, hike fourteeners, earn degrees, get married, all to reassure ourselves that we did something with our time here. We can look back, sigh, and confirm that we did something. I know I sound satirical, but I think the silliness of our endeavors is special. The chimes of time compel us to dance.

I can’t escape the suffocating fear that there is no point. Yes, I am here. But why? Isn’t that the ultimate question? Maybe there is no why. But then I fall back into the same paradox. If nothing matters, then isn’t that the ultimate freedom? Life becomes an absurdist playground, and we become free agents within it. Good, bad, tragic, and beautiful moments are just moments. We get to feel them, not analyze them. We can step outside the systems that try to define meaning for us. Like Sisyphus pushing his rock uphill, we wake up every day and keep going anyway. That’s the point: to experience life, suffering, and all, without explanation. But I would be lying if I said I could fully accept that. Honestly, all philosophers would be lying if they said the same. I just can’t accept that there is no point. I wish I could.

To be honest, I’m somewhat of a hypocrite. I’m the first to criticize organized religion and the ‘fools’ who abide by their vapid rules, like prisoners grateful for their own chains. Then again, I approach those devout believers with a degree of jealousy. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by churches, without any particular reason for being drawn to them. My parents are borderline atheists, our dinner conversation topics oscillate around world politics, ethical dilemmas, and digs at the catholic church. Still, I find myself gawking at these beautiful buildings, these sites with so much investment — not just monetary, but emotional, soulful investment- I walk in and am intoxicated by the warm, inviting aromas. There’s a part of me that gets it. It feels like being pulled into an embrace and being told that everything is going to be okay as long as you get on your knees and pray- repent! I want so desperately to buy into the ignorant hope that religion markets. The security in believing in a book that guides you into eternal happiness, a promise of a reward for all the shit we have to put up with here.

I guess what I’m saying is that, deep down, I hope I’ll be proven wrong- when the day comes that I don’t open my eyes, I’ll be somewhere else. Maybe that’s the part of me that still tethers my behavior to ethics and morality, maybe it’s the reason I claim good personhood, or maybe that’s just who I am. I believe there are things we can’t explain, things that go beyond human capacity to process. I also believe there are things in this world that possess evilness as well as goodness, but perhaps that’s all made up, too. So, I find myself stuck. Fissured.

There’s a part of me that believes in peace. Maybe in a reward for being a ‘good’ human, whatever that means. Then there’s a part of me that thinks it’s all bullshit. Maybe it was all constructed, and we’re just prisoners in a cruel world. Maybe the better option is to forget meaning and embrace absurdity. To throw up my hands and say it’s all ridiculous, but I’m here anyway

And yet, I cry every time I hear that line. It reminds me that life exists, I exist, and I have a chance to make a mark, even if small. Maybe it’ll mean nothing, or maybe it’ll mean something. Either way, I’m determined to make it mean something to me. I want to get to the end, look back, and say, ‘hell yeah, that was one journey.’ Every step, leap, fall, and trudge was worth it.