The sad possibility is we are alone. We come into this world briefly, barely have time to learn what's happening to us, and then we are gone forever. The universe is indifferent, life without intrinsic meaning, and death lasts forever. On the other hand: muffins.
"Astride of a grave and a difficult birth," writes Beckett. "Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries." But then one day you discover poppy seed, and it's like - Wow! That is amazing. Amazing.
A small sparrow, fragile and beautiful, flies in from the storm through a window high in the feast hall. There is a confusion of light, warmth and sound. However he soon finds the exit, and all is dark once more. Such is our earthly existence, according to the Bede. But what are they serving in that feast hall? Yes. You guessed it.
You forget about blueberry, of course. It's one of those flavors you pass by. Then on a whim, you decide to have one again, and you realize how good it is. Like you suddenly know you have a fragmentary personality and your own identity itself is an illusion. Aren't you, every moment, always leaving behind the moment before? How will death be any different? What is there to fear in such a world? Like the blueberry muffin, you perceive it in bits - a spark of discovery and sensation in an ocean of forgetfulness. But the berries are just the right kind of gooey, and the crust is perfect.
The fact that some kind of teleological meaning eludes us, that all revealed truths are hearsay, should not deter us from building a world of love and value. The muffin top is of course the pinnacle, but without the substance of the muffin it would be nothing. Nothing! Is the day to day struggle not enough to fill our hearts? Do we not each have our own night-filled mountain to contend with? One must imagine us, like Sisyphus, happy. Possibly overweight too. Which will bring death sooner. The candle burns the brighter for it, my friends.
Your doom approaches. Have a muffin.