The arts, the music and the literature gave him comfort till a time came when even the most cultural pleasantries of this world ceased soothing him. It was the undesired connection with the eternal infinite supreme nothingness that even the most sophisticated means ever created by the fellow miserable humans could not overpower. And so he wandered. In peace whenever the emptiness became too troubling. In chaos when the peace began screaming. He wandered. The illusory powers of the material empowered him now and then. But still he wandered. Not searching or seeking anything. For just like everything else, the search was meaningless. Only rational act to commit was to wander. Aimlessly. Without purpose, which is the grandest, and perhaps the most unfortunate driver of human pursuits. It was no more difficult than to live with a purpose. But it did give him meaning in this meaninglessness and it meant the world to him in this tiny speck of time spent on this round watery blob filled with rock on which he wandered.