Self-replication. Surely this is what life is all about.
None of us actually exist, at least not in the ways we generally believe that we do.
The purpose of this game (of life, of experience, of order and human intelligence) becomes the self-perpetuation of the game itself.
It is staggering (and blissfully unacknowledged) the extent to which this world of ours and all of its many anthropomorphic catastrophes are all quite simply occurring within and emanating from these brains between our ears.
Self and subjective psychological depth may be little more than a convenience - a fabrication or persistent fantasy and self-propagating illusion.
Given sufficient complexity, energy or information flow and time, the logical end-state of any particular process need not itself under analysis appear as though rationally derived or even substantively plausible.
Introspection is endless and is for all this - endlessly problematic.
If one day we should wake up and find that every single aspect of our lives have become so deeply steeped-in and dependent-upon digital technology that we are irrevocably cast into a secondary or supporting role, should we really be surprised ?
Are you reducible to a mere bank balance, a browser-history, or a litany of parking offences ? It is because you are so much more than this that you are also, uncategorisably, implicitly, in and of your self - an emptiness and essential vacuum or void.
While it is true that no living person has ever proved that God does not exist, nor has any living person ever proved that unicorns do not exist...
Humanity and human life is not, could never be, the measure of all things beyond those metrics and structures we inscribe (like transient, flickering neon lights) upon the darkness of cosmic depth...
It seems that we require the constant validation of the simplest narrative building blocks and a recurrent reinforcement of superficial trivialities...