We love to take the mystery of existence for granted. We especially love to make up stories about how things came to be.
Oh yeah, some big bearded man created all of this. Or first there was nothing, which exploded. Or here’s my favorite: infinite formless consciousness manifested the finite world of form for its own enjoyment.
You can’t make sense of existence. Stories can only tell you so much about the substance of the ink they’re written with.
When you really let that really sink in, you can’t help but be utterly fascinated with all of this. If there’s any reason to live, it’s for the mystery of existence.