Despite all my rational efforts; all the maths and research - there is a speck of insight that only poetry and literature can reach. It's irritating and comforting at the same time.
You might also like this phrase I adore, which expresses the same sentiment in a more general way:
"And the words slide into the slots ordained by syntax, and glitter as with atmospheric dust with those impurities which we call meaning."
Of course, Anthony Burgess is much more of a poet than I am.
But when you’re there - how do you cope with the heat death of the universe, or the loss of your close ones, or how do you justify being there? How do you find joy in your mornings, and how do you empathise with others, the living and the once-living?