The meaning of life is being alive.. . It's all quite simple really. I just formulated this somewhat cogently in the last couple of months (it's January 2000 now), but since I was five I've been thinking about this question.. . Always, my answer was that ultimately life is pretty meaningless. That we're all as insignificant as grains of dust in the grand cosmic scheme of things, all created randomly, leading random lives, and that our existence, or lack of, doesn't affect anything. This isn't a negative view---it's an extremely positive and uplifting one (and I've had an extremely positive upbringing). Thinking this viewpoint (assuming it's a relatively correct one) as negative would imply there's something about our place in this Universe that is not satisfactory. Why not accept who we are? I think it behooves us to remove any conditioning that makes us think we're more special than we really are. Only then will be content with who we are and perhaps then able to truly feel alive as a human being.. . More imporantly, this view opens all possible doors and makes the choices endless. What this means, in a similar vein as Sartrean existentialism, is that whatever meaning to life we give is borne out of our own creation. It is artificial but that's okay, as long as we're content when we go through our chaotic and complex life cycle.