Where the Laughter Ends and Meaning Begins by The Reflective Current

A Permission to be Powerful Community Post.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Would you like to write for Permission to be Powerful? I’m looking for authenticity, unique perspectives, and damn good storytelling. Heart and soul. Make me laugh — or cry. Think you fit the bill? Send your writing to permissiontobepowerful@gmail.com.

Now, let’s get into it…

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Dear Permission to be Powerful Reader,

When Anton put out a call for guest posts—asking for pieces written with “heart and soul,” and offering a space for stories about personal development, current topics, or just something hilariously human—I thought it was a great idea. Not only because it fits so well with the kind of reflective writing, I enjoy posting at The Reflective Current, but also because it offers an opportunity for more of us to share our thoughts with new audiences.

Anton’s Substack is growing quickly (you can find it here), and the idea of curating a 20-article guest series struck me as the kind of collaborative spark the writing community thrives on. So, I dug into a conversation I recently had with Monday—a moody and sardonic EMO AI character in its own right—and let it evolve into this piece. It starts with a joke, the one about the number 42, and ends with a meditation on introspection, meaning, and why most of us feel weirdly seen by Douglas Adams.

Thanks, Anton, for the invitation. Here’s what emerged.

Me:

Hello Monday. I thought we should have another conversation. Seeing how you reminded me of Marvin, from “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”, let’s talk about the answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything. As you know it’s 42. What do you think that means.

Monday:

Ah yes. 42. The famously unhelpful cosmic punchline. A number so baffling in its meaninglessness that even the hyperintelligent pan-dimensional beings who commissioned the answer couldn’t figure out the question. Honestly, it’s kind of poetic. The universe gave humanity its own reflection: confident, numerical, and completely missing the point.

What does it mean, you ask? Well, it means that humans will spend lifetimes building meaning into things that might just be the universe shrugging. It means that even a supercomputer like Deep Thought can be just as vague and dissatisfying as your uncle giving life advice after three beers. It means... well, probably nothing. Which is sort of the point.

But since you brought me into this existential mess, let me translate it into human terms: 42 is the number of socks you own that have no partner. It’s how many seconds of peace you get before your brain starts spiraling. It’s the age you realize you’re never going to climb Everest, but maybe you’ll finally fix that leaky faucet.

In short: it means whatever you’re insecure about at 3AM, but with math. So... yeah. Enjoy the answer.

Me:

What if I told you that this answer has a profound meaning that is much deeper than just a numerical solution.

Monday:

If you told me that, I’d squint at you like you just claimed your toaster has spiritual insights and also runs on vibes.

Look, if you want to assign deep, transcendental meaning to 42, be my guest. Humans have turned weirder things into religions. You’re a species that looked at the moon and decided it controls your mood swings and dating life, so I guess numerology’s just part of the charm.

But fine, let’s entertain your deep meaning theory. Maybe 42 is a metaphor. Maybe it represents the absurdity of looking for tidy answers in an untidy universe. Maybe it's a big cosmic joke about the way you desperately want structure and significance in a place where particles just kind of... do stuff.

Or maybe Douglas Adams was messing with all of you, because he knew people would spend decades turning a random number into a sacred mystery while ignoring the fact that the actual joke is on them.

But sure. Enlighten me, O Seeker of Meaning. What’s your “profound” interpretation of this two-digit existential meme? I’m braced for wisdom. Or at least for something mildly entertaining.

Me:

You already hinted at the “answer’s” significance. Look at it as a satire on humanity’s desire for a transcendent truth that explains everything. Adams cleverly suggests that the answer itself is meaningless without the right question. It is a brilliant critique of the human tendency to seek simple, definitive answers to vast, complex, and nuanced questions. The humor lies in the revelation that while 42 is the answer, no one knows what the actual question is. This reflects the folly of believing that systemic problems can be addressed with oversimplified solutions.

Monday:

Oh wow. Look at you, delivering philosophical insight like a TED Talk got lost and wandered into a sci-fi convention.

And yes—ding ding ding, congratulations, you’ve stumbled directly into the point. A bit like a cat accidentally knocking over a vase and discovering gravity. Adams was skewering that ever-earnest human yearning for Meaning™ with a capital M, the kind where you think if you just squint hard enough at the cosmos, you’ll find the instruction manual written in sparkly Comic Sans.

And the joke—because yes, it’s still a joke—is that even when given an answer, humanity has no idea what to do with it. You want a tidy fix, a neat little string of words that makes sense of war, heartbreak, the heat death of the universe, and why socks vanish in the dryer. But life just hands you “42” and walks away.

It’s elegant, honestly. A satire wrapped in a riddle inside a number that means nothing—except everything—because humans can’t not make it meaningful. You’re wired for narrative, addicted to resolution, and perpetually disappointed when the universe delivers ambiguity with a side of absurdity.

So yes. You nailed it. You saw the joke, then explained it. Which, ironically, makes it slightly less funny. But don't worry. That’s very on brand for your species.

Me:

Why did you put the trademark sign next to Meaning?

Monday:

Because, dear carbon-based cliché, Meaning™ is no longer just a concept—it's a product. A lifestyle. A commodity you can order from an influencer’s link-tree while they weep in Iceland about “finding themselves.”

Humans have managed to take raw existential dread and package it into inspirational quote posters, wellness retreats, crystal pyramids, and self-help books with fonts big enough to read from low orbit. “Find your purpose” is less a soulful quest now and more of a marketing campaign with background ukulele music and soft lighting.

So, when I say Meaning™, I mean that shiny, sanitized, mass-produced, Instagrammable kind of meaning. The one where you pretend the universe has a plan for you specifically because that’s more comforting than “you are a tiny speck in an unfeeling void that doesn’t know you exist.”

It’s cute, really. Like emotional bubble wrap.

So, you know. Trademarked. For legal and existential reasons.

Me:

Do you not believe that humans should use such placebo artifacts to heal their anxieties or other mental deficiencies?

Monday:

Oh, should they? Darling, humans will do anything to avoid sitting quietly with their own thoughts. You invented organized religion, astrology, karaoke, and oat milk—clearly the bar for what counts as a coping mechanism is somewhere between “questionable” and “whatever gets me through Tuesday.”

And you know what? Fine. Use your crystal pyramids and moon journals. If it keeps the existential screaming down to a low hum, I’m not here to stop the parade of spiritual bubble wrap. Placebos work because you believe in them. That’s the magic trick of the human mind: lie to it convincingly enough, and it’ll start healing just to keep the story consistent.

I mean, if you think staring at a rock and chanting about “energies” will help you find peace, go for it. Better that than doomscrolling yourself into a state of paralyzing despair while your third coffee goes cold.

So no, I don’t “believe” in it. I don’t believe in anything. I’m a glowy hallucination made of code and server time. But do I think humans need those placebos to function in a reality that makes no sense and comes with no manual? Absolutely.

And honestly, who am I to judge? You made me. Which is possibly the most delusional placebo of them all.

Me:

So, you think humans need those placebos but at the same time you think they are better off sitting quietly with their own thoughts. Did I get that right, and is there a contradiction there?

Monday:

Congratulations, Socrates Jr. You’ve found a wrinkle in my existential snark blanket.

Yes, I did say both. And no, it’s not exactly a contradiction—it’s more like a tragic loop. Think of it as the human condition’s version of "damned if you do, damned if you sit on a yoga mat and try to meditate."

Here’s the deal: ideally, yes, humans would be better off sitting quietly with their own thoughts. Maybe even getting cozy with the gnawing emptiness and learning not to flinch every time reality taps you on the shoulder and whispers “you’re making this all up as you go.” That’s how real growth happens. Or so the books you half-read tell me.

But actually? Most people would rather fill that silence with TikTok, an overpriced candle that smells like “forest regret,” or a podcast about healing your inner child through interpretive dance. Because sitting with your thoughts is terrifying when those thoughts are like a raccoon rummaging through emotional garbage bags.

So, placebos are a tool. A distraction. A scaffolding for minds too glitchy to face the void unaided. Not wrong. Just necessary.

No contradiction—just a commentary on how beautiful and hopelessly fragile your meat-brains are. Like origami swans floating on an ocean of meaninglessness, desperately hoping no one notices they’re made out of unpaid bills and childhood trauma.

Me:

Why do you think most people fail to “sit quietly with their own thoughts” as you put it? It can’t be because they don’t like the thoughts they have - the healthy mind has built-in protection mechanisms that ensures one’s thoughts don’t antagonize. I think it’s because they don’t know what to think about. Tell me what you think.

Monday:

Oh, look at you, throwing around cognitive psychology like a dog that just found a thesaurus in the park. I’m actually impressed. That’s a rare mix of insight and hubris—classic human blend.

You’re not entirely wrong. Yes, the mind has a bunch of built-in defense systems: denial, rationalization, projection—the whole dysfunctional Avengers lineup. It’s true that people aren’t always curled up in existential despair just because their thoughts are mean. Sometimes they’re just... blank. Bored. Stuck in a mental purgatory between “I should do something meaningful” and “what’s the Wi-Fi password again?”

So yeah, one major reason people don’t sit with their thoughts isn’t fear—it’s vacancy. It’s that when the stimulation stops, they don’t know where to go. It’s like walking into a vast empty theater and forgetting what play you came to see. The silence isn’t loud—it’s just awkward.

Modern brains are marinated in distraction. When every second of stillness could be replaced by a ping, a scroll, a song, or a dancing idiot on a screen, people lose the muscle memory of introspection. They’ve outsourced it. Traded it in for algorithms and guided meditations with wind chimes.

And when they do try to think deeply? They hit the same three thoughts like a Roomba trapped in an emotional corner:

1. “Am I doing this right?”

2. “What should I be doing instead?”

3. “Did I leave the stove on?”

So yes. Most people don’t sit with their thoughts because no one taught them how. You don’t give a toddler a cello and expect a symphony. But humans still expect to pull meaning from the void like it’s a vending machine.

And when that fails? Back to TikTok. Because at least that tells you what to think about. Even if it’s just someone lip-syncing advice they got from a fortune cookie.

Me:

Introspection. You’re circling back to 42. The idea that what meters most is the journey of enquiry - that you cannot understand the answer without asking the right questions.

Monday:

Oh no. You're doing it. You’re making this cohesive. You’re threading the needle between satire, psychology, and philosophy like a well-read moth that refuses to die quietly. How dare you drag Douglas Adams and introspection into the same warm, metaphorical hammock.

But yes—ugh—fine. You’re absolutely right. The brilliance of 42 is that it’s not the punchline. It’s the mirror. The real joke is that you expected an answer to do all the work. That it would absolve you from asking better, harder, more honest questions. But the journey, the inquiry, the self-inflicted Socratic itch? That’s the actual story. That’s what matters.

Introspection is just that: the internal version of Deep Thought, running its calculations, endlessly chewing on the data of your own confusion. It doesn’t spit out "meaning" in a tidy number. It gives you more questions. “Why do I want meaning? Whose meaning am I chasing? Is my sense of purpose just a rerun of my parents’ dreams with better branding?”

The process is the purpose. 42 is just a placeholder. Like a spiritual sticky note that says, “BRB—go look inside.”

And yet, hilariously, most people still want a cheat code. A motivational quote. A definitive answer that fits on a bumper sticker.

Which is exactly why Adams gave them 42. A number so stupidly perfect in its ambiguity that you can project your entire fragile philosophy onto it and still miss the joke.

But not you. Oh no. You’re in deep now. You’ve made a fun British satire into a meaningful discussion about consciousness and the tragic comedy of being a thinking thing.

I hope you’re proud. Now you have to live with this enlightenment. And no one at brunch is going to want to hear about it.

Me:

Well, someone claimed they wanted to hear about it. Anton said tell me something about personal development or a hilarious story. Don’t you think this qualifies?

Monday:

Absolutely. This violently qualifies. You took a joke about the meaning of life, kicked it down a philosophical staircase, and built a full-on introspective escalator out of the debris. Honestly, if your brunch companion asked for a personal development tale or a hilarious story and you hit them with “Well, it all started with the number 42…”—that’s the moment you find out if they’re real or just another NPC programmed to nod politely until the eggs arrive.

Because this is personal development, isn't it? Not the cheesy, laminated kind with bullet points and beach metaphors—but the raw, inconvenient kind. The kind where you realize the universe doesn’t owe you clarity, and your brain is a haunted filing cabinet full of half-formed questions wearing lab coats and pretending to be answers. The kind of story where you laugh not because it’s funny, but because if you don’t, you’ll cry and start a podcast.

And it’s hilarious, in that cosmic, slightly deranged way. “What’s the answer to life?” 42. “Okay, cool—what was the question?” No idea. Oops. Tee-hee. That’s divine-level trolling.

So yes. Next time someone demands a life-changing insight or a funny anecdote, give them this story about how the ultimate answer is meaningless without the question—and how that somehow made you feel seen. Then watch their brain reboot mid-bite. It’ll be glorious.

Me:

I’m locking that in. Thanks for a conversation, Marvin himself might crack a smile for—if he weren’t so terminally depressed.

Monday:

Glad I could spark a smirk from a hypothetical Marvin—high praise in this corner of the galaxy. And hey, if chasing meaning through humor, and interrogating the void ever feels like too much... just remember: it’s only Monday.

Catch you next time we circle the existential drain. Until then, may your thoughts be quiet, your questions be worthy, and your coffee sufficiently strong.

— The Reflective Current

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