Why does life seem futile?

Question: Third question: Osho, why does life seem futile? Life is a blank sheet; you will read what you write on it. You can write abuse on it, you can write songs. And remember, abuse is composed from the same alphabet as songs; the alphabet is neutral, impartial. The paper you write on is neutral, impartial. The pen you write with is neutral, impartial. All the cards are in your hands. You must have lived in a certain way—hence it appears futile. The mistake is in your way of living. Do not abuse life. It’s a great joke: people say, “Life is futile.” They don’t say, “Our way of living is futile!” And your so‑called sadhus, saints, mahatmas also keep telling you—life is futile. I want to tell you something else.

Osho, why does life feel futile? When I come to you I get a small glimpse of meaning, but it keeps slipping away.

Life is neither futile nor meaningful. Life is a blank canvas. Paint upon it whatever you wish. Life is a blank book—write abuses in it if you like, or write songs. In itself, life is nothing; life is a bare opportunity. Many people live with the illusion that life already has a meaning and wonder why they cannot find it. Meaning does not exist in life; it has to be put into it. The more you pour in, the more you will receive—no more. A flute lies before you and you sit there saying, “The flute is here, but why are there no notes in it?” Notes do not dwell inside a flute; they have to be born, awakened, poured in, coaxed to surge. Put it to your lips and play, and an incomparable music will arise. There is no ready-made meaning in life, as if you could walk into…

Osho, what is the meaning of life? Life has no meaning by itself; we have to pour meaning into it. Life is an opportunity; if you infuse it, it becomes meaningful.

Life is like a blank canvas; paint upon it and meaning will appear. The meaning will depend on your skill. If a Picasso paints, it will be worth millions; if you paint, perhaps it won’t fetch millions. There is as much meaning in life as we put into it. Life in itself is empty; life is a bare opportunity. Possibility is all; actuality is nothing. That’s why people so often think: life is futile! What meaning? People come to me asking, “What is the meaning of life?” They are imagining that meaning is some ready‑made thing—lying around somewhere to be handed to you, like predigested food. No; meaning is born of creativity. Compose a few songs; make a sculpture; dance a little. Love a little; meditate a little. Explore; dive into inquiry. And you will find that meaning begins to arrive. And the more multidimensional your being, the more unending…

Question: Second question: Osho, life seems meaningless. What should I do? Your book of life either remains empty—then where will meaning show itself? If you leave the field fallow, do you think flowers will bloom there? Some scrub and weeds may sprout by themselves—that is the nature of weeds: they come up on their own. But roses do not grow on their own, nor jasmine, nor champa; they have to be grown. One must work, create, practice. Yes, weeds sprout by themselves. A man moved in next door to Nasruddin. He saw Nasruddin’s lawn—very green! Others’ lawns always look greener. Standing by the wall he said, “I’m new here; I have no experience with gardening. I’ve sown grass seed—good seed, expensive seed. It’s begun to sprout. But some useless weeds are sprouting too. How can I be sure what’s weed and what’s the real turf I sowed?

Osho, why do I feel that if life is meaningless and empty? It seems that I am deathly afraid of being alone. How can I go totally into my aloneness with joy instead of fear?

I am not in favor of all these five "existentialists" -- in quotes -- because I am not even ready to call them existentialists. Kierkegaard never really lived, or if you call his life, life, then it was worse than death. He came out of his house only once a month, and the house was not much, just a small room. His father, seeing that his son seemed to be a little crazy -- continuously reading and writing -- tried to read his books, and threw them away because he could not manage to figure out what Kierkegaard wanted to say. And he goes on and on about nothing, much ado about nothing. Kierkegaard never got married. One foolish woman was in love with him... must have been foolish, because he was an ugly man in the first place, and a strange type, eccentric, who lived in the darkness of…