Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards. – Soren Kierkegaard
Experiences give us meanings, but meanings don’t mean anything unless we understood them.

“I've got nowhere to go. This is a perfect place. In my room, by myself. With no one bothering me and with no one to bother. I’m alone.”
Kang-ho said to himself. It was his eighteenth birthday, but he didn’t care.
“Nothing means anything in life,” he said, “but the lack of meaning itself.”
His past two years had been just like this, dejected and isolated from the world. The world gave him new daily focus, but he didn’t give the world anything. It seemed as if the world was a giant trap into which he was born, but in the absence of the truth he would never know why or how he fell into this place in the first place.
“I must go on,” he said, “Because I have no choice — but I know this is wrong. This world is wrong. And guess what, I don’t even care. Little difference does it make whether I care.”
Exiting out of his room, Kang-ho started feeling sick. Not sick in the physical sense, but sick as in his soul, in his mind, of this world. He wanted to be refreshed. So he snatched his laptop and got online.
“What is new today? Hmm. I need to read something — anything.”
It was, surprisingly, fifteenth years since the 9/11, and the memory of the atrocity committed in the center of the civilization shocked him, and freed him from his previous sickness.
Click Click Click. Tap Tap Tap. Click Click Click. Tap. Click.
“This can’t be!”, he said, “There’s gotta be something fun!”
But he knew he wasn’t done. He could always find something to satisfy himself with. He desperately knew that he had to find a way out of this meaninglessness in life, and his attempt to pass time in the most painless manner constituted most of his life. If nothing else, p*o*r*n*o*graphywould always be there— beautiful girls, naked, in need of men— and nothing gave him cheaper and quicker pleasure than watching girls have se* without bothering to wonder what their names were. To him, se*ual graphics didn’t mean any more than what the TV Shows or occasional sports games did. He watched them, derived appropriate satisfaction from them, and then moved on — everything he did, every show he watched, and every book he read, if anything, relieved him from the worry that he doesn’t know why he is living at all.
This sense of nothingness, however, didn’t depress him. It never did. He could find something else all the time, something that would keep him occupied at least for the next few hours. And then he would take a nap, get some food, and a day would pass like a flash. It would matter little what he actually did. The relentless passage of time would negate his emotions, his actions, and his existence itself, and he knew too well that his life would end in any minute soon enough.
He knew that this world was, after all, full of crap. One day we think we are the center of the universe; the next day we look at some worms crawling on the ground and desperately wish that we were rather them — unaware, emotionless creatures with no objectives in life— and half-jealous and half-snide, we would admire their ignorance in which they neither question nor acknowledge anything.
We, the humans, are actually like the worms, devoid of true meaning yet content with a false sense of security. We love society, media, politics, and sports, yet fail to see what they represent. Miserable creatures! We can think, reason and feel, but it means nothing if we don’t understand what that means. Tell me, what does it mean to be a human? What does it mean to live?
And that was exactly the feeling that Kang-ho felt; in the realm of nothingness, whatever he did would mean little, if at all. Sure, it was fun to be living a life of an excess, like an extra stinkbug useless yet aspiring to continue its existence. But deep inside, he knew that he had too much at stake to go on like this. He wanted to feel free, liberated from his bodily, worldly, and even spiritual duties. He wanted to become free from the world; he knew it was unlikely, but it wasn’t impossible. He would end his life. The ways of doing so would take him a moment of consideration; in fact, he seemed content to have found something to occupy his mind with. Soon enough, however, he would execute his action and achieve the purest sense of freedom — freedom from need of freedom itself and freedom from the world! And then, along with his ancestors, he would disappear from this fabric of reality, leaving behind him a body and a skeleton that would mean nothing.