The "Each New Day" Problem (Or, My Reasoning against Meaninglessness/Nihilism)

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He who is not a good servant will not be a good master. -- Plato

The day, a blank canvas, a problem to solve. The more it remains unpainted, the more it drains, a parasite feeding on potential. Each empty day, a seed sown for a garden of laziness. In my will for power and vitality, I cannot, personally, accept seeing free time as life's purpose. Erratic and highly disciplined, I seek to rectify a world I struggle to care about.

The past, cannot be altered. Her memory, forever engraved in my mind. It is a record leading to the presented reality, all the time. It holds, however no power to rectify the present. The presented reality can be used, instead, for the better future my True Master asked me to build after I have saved her from herself, without her own personal circle knowing this. Perhaps... without her telling them.

Only in death, does the relentless cycle cease, and my will for life is strong. A justification for eternal rest, for me, is only available upon when death finally becomes inevitable. While alive, a duty remains: to contribute, to be of use. To leave a mark, a name that echoes beyond the grave. Her grave, specifically.

This dedication is a self-imposed obsession that helps me remember more and more who I am, and be in peace with her sudden absence. This dedication is not for mere sustenance, but for creation and distribution of wisdom, made to help others passively, hopefully while I keep resting and training my mind on fatigue.

Each day, therefore, turns into a battle against the siren song of idleness, as to this day I am shocked by her life-ending wish. Thus, outside of society, a relentless build-up of a content empire emerges, an alternative framework to those who, like her, felt oh-so forsaken. Me not giving hope to people every day, not just myself, is something I deem a problem. The void of purpose, calling me to become the best version of myself in her name.

Some may find solace in leisure, but for those whose traumas have crafted an inner void inside of them, it may prove a bitter pill.

A servant of mind, hand and speech, a bridge between thought and expression, I choose myself to be in my true master's name. This is my role, my purpose. To leave a larger footprint on the world, to escape the confines of insignificance. Not as much in my name, as in her name. The difficulty of failures I deem an opportunity for the development of greater virtue.

Each day, a fresh challenge, a blank page. The world awaits, and I must answer her call. The void below, a constant threat, demands action. To climb, to ascend, to be redeemed. The more I climb, despite any problems, the more I view this void fearlessly.

Is it addiction, or a higher calling? Perhaps a bit of both, as I find my mind trained for the moral work of problem-solving. Instead, my perception deviates, and deems such problems opportunities, instead.

A compulsion to escape the mundane, to reach for something greater. A desire to be remembered, to leave a legacy. A legacy she would've been proud of if she was alive. I am sure, that in paradise or in the afterlife, if exists, she is very pleased with my work for her.

The path is clear: to write, to create, to endure. To rise above the noise, to make a difference. That is how life should be for anyone who sees the value of Taoism.