A Meadow

Sometimes I believe it's futile to believe in good things. There are massive parts of me that feel the concept of good can only be perpetuated with self-inflicted ignorance, a sort of defense mechanism from the cruel dark truth of existence. But the other part of me feels that believing in positivity and constantly pushing towards the light is beautiful. The thought of dedicating a lifetime to the pursuit of creativity, truth and love only to discover that ultimately there is only emptiness is very embarrassing. I would feel a fool to have so terribly misled myself. However upon thinking deeper, what is more foolish? Living a half-assed passionless life, never conjuring the strength to believe in believing or taking an educated chance that beauty and life are worth it, no matter how apparently fleeting they are. Does the life-span of any single moment, any single thought or piece of artwork or poem or kiss or relationship or embrace or idea, bear any relevance to it's worth? I can't quite put my finger on why, but it seems selfish to only express yourself or believe in something or commit time and effort to something when you can be certain that it will matter to someone somewhere or that it will bear relevance to the bigger picture, even if you are quite sure that it is a good thing. There may or may not be a heaven or a bigger canvas on which our smaller picture is painted but should that have any impact on our ability or willingness to fall endlessly and completely in love with life and each other?