I spend a lot of time wondering why and how to be. I don’t do this out of any existential desperation, I’m just curious. Curiosity is an unleashed puppy that will sniff where it will. Puppy Henry can be nudged in desirable directions, but not forced.

Forego the prepackaged explanations of existence and it presents quite a puzzle. Being takes a lot of work – procreating, being born, making our way. Life can be a blast, but if we vanish eventually into nothingness, why bother? We’re born to prolong our species, Darwin posited, but why was our species born? Could a world so rewarding have been produced for no good reason?

Many people don’t fret this mystery. They may confront the quandary in a crisis, then dismiss it as unfathomable. Or they accept a God based on others’ assertions, who purportedly know more. Or they adjudge the sensual satisfaction of existence sufficient explanation, case closed.

There are no right or wrong ways to wrestle the confusion of being. Any answer that feels adequate is. I birddog my ignorance for the fun of it, the way others do crosswords. Maybe if I were cleverer at crosswords, I’d spend less time on this.

I see no evidence for meaning in the observable. Science’s success persuades me that everything is knowable, given time to explore. We will see beyond our galaxy as we have seen into our genome. Our vision will be intensified by mighty machines. And no matter how far we look we’ll find no reason. We exist – because we exist. And sooner or later we – our species, solar system, galaxy – will cease to. Dust to dust.

This troubles puppy Henry not a jot, because he doesn’t think about it. Humans are cursed and blessed by curiosity. Like Bluebeard’s bride, we keep nosing where we oughtn’t and recoiling aghast.

If we can’t discover meaning, do we live without it? Nihilism is an option surely, but for me unenticing. I prefer envisioning my importance. So I make it up. I imagine I matter, knowing I don’t. It is so if I think so – so I think so.

But isn’t that cheating – inventing some purpose that cannot be proved? Not in my book. Imagination is the human magic. We dream and sometimes our dreams come true.

There’s a song in Showboat, that precious musical, called “Make believe,” with dazzling lyrics by our great demotic poet, Oscar Hammerstein, Jr., set to a fine tune. “Only make believe,” sing the lovers to each other,

As love of another is imaginary, so is any belief we matter. Others find peace of mind in pretending, so why not we? A creed may convince you – or a philosophy – or infatuation. Feel you were “born for this,” and doubts and difficulties disappear. Right now, typing, I feel I’m doing what I was born for. Crazy, I know, ludicrous, but it makes me glad.

From my crazy belief I construct my practical and spiritual modus operandi. I arrange my life to write because I was meant to. I strive to be a good person because I was meant to do that too. Might as well make believe I love you.

For to tell the truth, I do.