Meaningful.

Willingly or unwillingly, we are in an indifferent universe where the majority of influences on our lives are not only out of our control but were entirely arbitrary based on the circumstances of our births and the lives of our parents. We still have ultimate freedom, the freedom of a card player: to fold, or to play the cards we’ve received. As Camus said, suicide is the central problem in philosophy. But a game of cards can be won or lost; a life can only be lived, and the terms of that life are yours to define. We recognise that meaning is a value we assign to words and hang on objects; we should feel no despair in realising the profound meaningless of reality, because it is precisely that meaninglessness which affords us the freedom to define ourselves. It is in interpreting that we exist. Humans are a creative race, and creating meaning is the first of our great projects to create ourselves and our place in the vast indifferent universe. Humans were telling stories before they were building cities, before they were sowing fields.

Meaning is not inherent, but you can spend your time however you want. It's what you choose to do and what you choose not to do that defines you. We are always making these choices.

For a moment.

Anyway, I stopped time, no, I transcended time. It held no meaning. Everything was happening in the same busy instant. But it was not the dizzying journey I had hoped for. It was like flipping through a book. I read the first page and the last page and skimmed the chapters, and that was when I realised that the only good thing about the whole lousy affair was watching it unfold. All I'd done was take away that rush of blackness we'd all been plunging into, and there was nothing more to learn, just a vague irritation with myself for spoiling it.

Against my better judgement.

Against my better judgement I returned to the cave site.

I had to see if there was something - some small clue -a a hint that would explain what would happen or what was happening.

I had intended to visit at midday, but by the time I found the site again the sun was hanging low in the sky and the shadows were long. The cave entrance appeared even darker and I gripped my torch closely.

The whole thing had this odd, blasted, ancient feel to it, a harsh contrast to the woodland outside. There was a strange acrid smell that I could not identify and that smarted my nostrils as I steadied my nerves and entered the cave.

Once I had traced my way to the odd temple-room I had an unavoidable realisation. Someone else had been here since I last visited. The bones were scattered as if a wild and angry animal had run oose. The odd, large, wolf-like skeletons were gone and the human remains had been flung about with great force. The ribcage was in pieces and the skull was nowhere to be seen.

The ancient drawings had a recent update. Splashes of crimson blurred and obscured them. I suspected, at first, that some kids had come and trashed the place, but some absent part of me artlessly reached towards the wall and my hand came away sticky. I felt suddenly dizzy. To this day I do not know if the blood was animal or human.

The one painting that was untouched was the depiction of a man holding aloft my artifact. Yet it was not quite untouched, for on closer examination a splash of red covered the artifact itself. A horrid calm swept over me. Somehow, they were aware I had destroyed the artifact, and I was beginning to suspect I had made a rather serious error in my assessment of it.

Now that I looked at the painting again, it seemed ridiculous to think that it attracted or controlled the creatures. The figure, now smeared with blood, held the object before him like a priest would hold a crucifix to ward off evil.