My existence is a cycle of naught. In the end, I am just like air, I may or may not be here in the next seconds.
The reason, however, is not my duty to think on. I am born, live in the path I choose, or however, the notion from my upbringing directs me. Become great, leave a legacy and all anyone can do with it is emulate until they can’t. And then they die too. Maybe I exist so someone else can live better, but even them too will be naught no matter how best they live.
Purpose is tricky. Thinking of it based on my creator then I am an object for worship, for myself, I am nothing. My purpose is not to poetry or success or righteousness, it is just to live and to die. Everything in-between is a chosen path, everything after, however, I am oblivious of.