Currently I sit onboard a flight traveling to Denver. The announcement came that I'm allowed to take out my laptop. My ears are actively popping. Flights are the perfect opportunity to write.

Of course, it's hard to write with the pain in my ears. It's hard to focus. My Apple Airpods are playing music, and my window is open, exposing the ever expanding breadth of suburbia and farmland that we call Planet Earth.

Still though, I use my laptop, typing away each word that you've already read. It's just the headspace that I'm in, and well, it's not like I have anything better to do while trapped 32,000 feet in the air. It's the perfect opportunity to write.

So what then, does such an opportunity afford me? I'm writing, of course, but with what substance? Is actively narrating my actions worthy enough to be awarded a whole page on my website? Are the mechanisms of my mind such an enigma that they need to be explained?

I use writing to sort out my thoughts. Writing to you can be an exercise in explaining to myself. That much is obvious.

I don't think this is that case though.

I don't have any grand thoughts or mechanisms.

I'm just bored, and I was neglecting the blog. So thus I write. And that's ok.

When I was younger I used to believe that what you did had to matter. On the surface level, it does, of course. Actions have consequences, and putting meaning behind your actions gives them substance. It gives them a reason for you to actually do them.

But as I've grown, my beliefs have changed; what does it mean for something to matter?

If I write this because I think I have something important to say, does that mean it matters? If I write this purely because I'm bored, does that make it matter less? They're both reasons, yes, but do the reasons have meaning?

Do they need to?

Is doing something purely because you want to, for no reason other than some childish banalities, justifiable enough to make your life still have meaning? Where is the line of the proportion of these "meaningless" actions to the meaningful? At what point does your life have meaning? And at what point does it not?

I imagine there's philosophy discussions on this very topic. Some philosophers probably argue that your life has meaning not because of your actions, but because of the life inherent within it. Others might argue that if you aren't living your days constantly striving to do things that have meaning, then it isn't a life worth living.

Like all things, the reality is probably somewhere in the middle. I do not pretend to be some philosopher that can answer or explain these questions. These tabulations will remain that. They're just a thought exercise that at the end of the day it doesn't really matter.

But maybe it's something interesting to think about, 32,000 feet in the air.