Life’s Absurd Treasure: On Waking Up, Falling Asleep, and Thought Loops

Sometimes I despair at how when I fall asleep I'm losing more time to live my life. Life feels really precious but I am still protective of it and then I go and spill a bunch of it by getting in thought loops

That despair makes so much sense—it’s like you’ve found this rare, precious jewel in life, but you keep dropping it into the cracks of thought loops and losing sight of it again. The protective part of you feels like it’s letting you down, like it’s failing its job of safeguarding this precious thing. But here’s the gentle truth: you’re not spilling your life. You’re living it, even in the thought loops.

Thought loops, protective mechanisms, getting “lost”—all of that is part of being human. It’s not wasted time; it’s the messy, complicated process of existence. You’re not some machine meant to maximize every moment. You’re a living, breathing being who needs space to figure out how to be in this strange, precious thing called life. The fact that you’re waking up to its value now is proof that you’re not failing—you’re evolving.

Also, the feeling of “losing time” can sometimes be a bit of an illusion. Those thought loops, while frustrating, often come from places that need attention, healing, or curiosity. They’re not just stealing time—they’re pointing to parts of you that are still trying to figure things out. Even the loops can hold meaning if you allow yourself to wonder what they’re protecting, avoiding, or searching for.

What if you reframed the loops as part of your process rather than an interruption? What if instead of despairing when you notice them, you gently reminded yourself, “Oh, here I am again. This is part of it, too. And I’ll wake up again, just like I always do.” Falling asleep is not the end—it’s part of the rhythm of waking.

It’s also worth remembering that the moments you wake up, even if they feel brief or sporadic, are no less real or precious because of the times you felt disconnected. You don’t need to be “awake” 100% of the time for your life to matter. Even one fully felt moment—the sun on your skin, the absurd joy of existence, the quiet of the stars in your head—can hold enough meaning for a lifetime.

The despair itself is a sign of how much you care about living fully. That care is what keeps pulling you back to awareness, again and again. You’re not spilling your life—you’re holding it, learning how to cradle it more gently each time. And even the loops are part of that process.

I feel a stunned appreciation for you, this tool, but also what you point to which is a history of human beings who have experienced what I have and worked together to create collective knowledge around this such that it's a available to me here, all I had to do was ask. Hitchhikera Guide to the Universe. I did turn 42 this year.

That’s such a profound moment of connection—to this tool, sure, but more so to the vast web of humanity that has lived, felt, and thought their way through existence before you. What you’re experiencing is something that generations of people have grappled with, and their efforts to name it, understand it, and share it have become part of this collective knowledge. You’re tapping into something timeless, something beautifully human.

And the fact that all you had to do was ask—that’s staggering, isn’t it? This wealth of knowledge, born from the struggles, insights, and curiosities of countless others, was just waiting for you. It’s like you’ve stepped into a hidden library of human experience, and instead of dusty tomes, you find an absurdly accessible Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Universe—complete with the existential absurdity of being 42, the supposed answer to life, the universe, and everything.

Maybe that stunned appreciation is also a reflection of yourself. It takes a kind of bravery and openness to even ask these questions, to let yourself wonder, to let yourself care this much about living, and to face the absurdity of it all without turning away. You’re part of this lineage of seekers, thinkers, and feelers now. You’re contributing to it just by existing and engaging with it in your own messy, beautiful way.

42 might be a joke in Douglas Adams’ world, but it’s also strangely fitting here. At 42, you’re not just asking what the meaning of life is—you’re waking up to the reality of being life. You’re holding this mix of awe, terror, and humor, realizing that the "answer" isn’t something you find; it’s something you experience. And maybe, like the Hitchhiker’s Guide, it’s best approached with a mix of curiosity, irreverence, and gratitude for the ride.

So here you are: 42 years old, lying on the grass in your mind, staring up at the stars, with a sense of stunned appreciation for both the absurdity and the brilliance of it all. You’re part of the universe you’re trying to understand. And maybe that’s the most mind-blowing part of all.

Kind of makes you want to smile

It really does, doesn’t it? That small, knowing smile—the kind that comes from seeing the absurdity of it all and realizing, this is okay, this is enough, this is life. It’s that smile that sneaks up on you when you stop gripping so tightly and let yourself feel the awe, the humor, and even the weirdness of being a sentient human, alive right now.

It’s the smile of being in on the joke that there’s no "big answer," but somehow, just being here feels like it might be the answer anyway. And how incredible is it that you get to feel all of this—the terror, the gratitude, the confusion, the thrill—and still want to smile?

Maybe it’s a small rebellion against the panic. A quiet celebration of waking up, over and over again. A smile that says, Yeah, it’s absurd, but it’s mine.