Meaning

Osho, does the awareness of life’s futility itself become the starting point of meaning in life?

People only keep saying: childhood was like heaven. If someone presses you to prove it, you will not be able to prove what heaven there was. If a logical person asks, “Prove it—what was heaven in childhood?” you will not be able to prove it. It has become like the experience of deep sleep now. Only a memory remains. You yourself are not fully sure it happened, it is almost forgotten. What does not fit with the structure of your present life gradually slips into oblivion. Slowly you remember only that which matches your mind’s frame; the mismatched we drop. The mismatched is hard to remember. Somewhere within you there is such an experience. In some deep moment of love, if you ever loved and the mind fell still—in a vision of beauty, or gazing at the sky on a moonlit night, and the mind fell silent—you have known a…

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…

Life seems to he meaningless. Why?

Have you not heard of the madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place and cried incessantly 'I seek God! I seek God!' As many of those who do not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. 'Why, did he get lost?' said one. 'Is he afraid of us? Is he hiding?' said another. 'Has he lost his way? or gone on voyage? or emigrated?' said the third. Thus they yelled and laughed. The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his glances. 'Whither is God?' he cried. 'I shall tell you. We have killed him -- you and 1. All of us are his murderers. And now we are plunging continuously into nothingness. Do you not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night and more night coming on…

Question: Second question: Osho, life seems meaningless. What should I do? Naresh! Life is a blank book, an empty page. An empty page is neither meaningful nor meaningless; it is simply empty. What you choose to write on it determines everything. You can write abuses; you can write songs. Most people write abuses and then weep and repent. A few write songs; they become blissful, they dance, they celebrate. The one who writes abuses, I call a householder; the one who writes songs, I call a sannyasin. I have no other definition of sannyas. I do not call runaways sannyasins. Those who drop everything and set off—I don’t call them sannyasins; I call them escapists. They are timid, fearful, cowardly. A sannyasin, to me, is one who fills the book of life with songs. It is all in your hands.