The man loves science, the necessary
questions related to the task at hand
and the testing, over and over and over
again, to help determine the validity of
the hypothesis. The man loves the “how”
of the task — how does this or that work?
But as much as he loves the hows of
life, if life were only left to hows and
the why’s were never addressed, the
man believes the life might be like
the hamster on the wheel and then he
thought that perhaps humans need to be
like that hamster on the wheel going
nowhere to even begin to ask why. He
wonders if perhaps the dark night of
the soul is a prerequisite to any type
of personal resolution in answering the
question why. Maybe not. Maybe there
is that rare character who resolves
and finds meaning without closing in
on the despair that lurks in the folds
of the brain and between the beats of the
heart. Therein lies the rub he thinks to
himself. There is no guarantee of meaning
when the irrepressible “why” comes knock-
ing. There might only be, he knows from a
family experience, the resolve that brings
a sense of peace to the meaninglessness of
it all — the nihilistic urge — suicide. But there
are testimonies to the contrary — emerging
at what some call “the second half of life”
when status, accumulations, adoration fall
away and hope and peace come to stay. And
he affirms that it is a mystery, but not a nihil-
istic nightmare, much like Macbeth’s philosophy
of life: a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and
fury, signifying nothing… but rather, the man
affirms in faith, the glorious mystery of love
eternal in the midst of it all. And then his eyes
close after staring at the cross.