Reasons for Our Existence: Questions That Define the Universe

Sometimes, the weight of existence feels almost unbearable. Why am I me? Why do I exist in this vast, infinite universe? These questions have no easy answers, and perhaps none at all. But they haunt me nonetheless, like whispers from some deeper part of reality that I can never quite grasp. Whenever I reflect upon my existence, my body has merely seemed like a vessel, a vehicle for something far more profound. My soul-if indeed such a term can apply-feels as though it were truly "me." But what is it, really? Is my soul a spark of energy, some indestructible essence stitched into the universe along with gravity and light?

Is it some sort of code, a line in a cosmic program where the universe itself plays the programmer? If so, what happens after death: does the code delete itself or is saved somewhere else waiting to run again?

I work hard to imagine that the soul might be a persistent thing—energy not lost, but merely transformed. Maybe when we die, our souls rejoin this greater whole of sense or even reconnect with loved ones that we see go. The thought of seeing them again is beautiful. But even that hope loops back into the greatest question of all: why does the universe exist in the first place?

A Universe Full of Questions

The Fermi Paradox asks the following question: why haven't we seen any signs of intelligent life in this universe with billions of galaxies and countless planets? If there are civilizations out there, why don't we hear anything? This silence seems eerie and unsettling, as if we had gone into an empty theater upon hearing how packed the show would be.

One possible explanation is the Zoo Hypothesis, a concept that feels straight out of science fiction but has real scientific merit. Imagine Earth as a galactic zoo. Advanced civilizations might be observing us from a safe distance, careful not to interfere with our development—like scientists watching animals in the wild. UFO sightings, if they're real, could be zookeepers checking on their exhibit.

This is exactly what Contact by Carl Sagan shows when the search for extraterrestrial intelligence (SETI) turns out to be a beacon of hope and mystery. The movie begins with an advanced alien civilization that sends an ambiguous signal to Earth and initiates the first step of humanity's involvement in a cosmic community. What if, however, in Contact, aliens were an exception, and most civilizations preferred to be in hiding?

Dark Forest

The Dark Forest Hypothesis is much darker and comes from Liu Cixin's Three-Body Problem series. Think of the universe as a great silent forest. Every civilization is a hunter hiding in the understory. Declaring your presence—to send a signal out into the void—is to risk destruction, for you never know if the other is friend or foe.

This chilling logic brings the end in The Three-Body Problem. One moment one civilization catches wind of another; the world descends into fear and hostility, all of a chain reaction. This is the view that makes the universe not silent by accident but by design: an implicit agreement of the civilizations to be silent for the survival of humankind.

Could our broadcasting of our presence as a civilization through radio signals, space probes, and searching for intelligent life budgets us our fatal mistake? According to the Dark Forest Hypothesis, every message that we send is a flare in the night, revealing our location to those invisible hunters.

The Drake Equation: A Cosmic Puzzle

While the darkness looms, hope always remains to be seen in the darkest of times. The Drake Equation on estimating the number of civilizations in our galaxy was first proposed by astronomer Frank Drake. He essentially considers two factors on which the equation depends: the number of stars and the probability of habitable planets. The next factor on which he would weigh probability is whether life would ever develop intelligence.

The equation is both thrilling and sobering: nudge the variables, and you can imagine a galaxy teeming with life-or a barren void where we are utterly alone. It's a cosmic Rorschach test, revealing as much about our hopes and fears as it does about the universe.

A Planetarium of Illusions

Then there's the Planetarium Hypothesis, which seems plucked straight out of a Christopher Nolan movie. Maybe the entire universe is just an illusion, kind of a planetarium built by some superintelligence to keep us in the dark? In that scenario, the space stretching out there is a contrived facade to keep us from figuring out that we're not alone, or not in charge.

This idea is in line with simulation theory, a concept that has been explored in films like The Matrix. If the universe is a simulation, what is its purpose? Are we part of an experiment, entertainment, or something even stranger? And if we ever found the edges of the simulation, what would we see?

Cinema as the window to the cosmos

Science fiction has historically been a sort of way wherein we try making sense of what seems impossible to have a place inside the cosmos when we consider deeper existential questions. That is why "Contact" sees alien life brought forth as highly human in which it challenges our concept of our existences in cosmo.

"The Three Body Problem" adopts a more desperate tone by proclaiming that actually, contact turns out to haunt us to disaster. On a more optimistic path, "Interstellar" advances the notion on the survival course of humanity should rely on developing ways to overstep our finite limits—so not only would it be merely our physical conditions but also any form of bondage within the heart. These stories resonate because they reflect a set of the same questions that keep us up at night.

Are we alone?

What happens after we die?

Why does the universe exist?

They don't give us answers, but they do something more important: they give us permission to wonder. Living with the questions For all of our theories-the Zoo Hypothesis, the Dark Forest, the Drake Equation, and the Planetarium-we don't know. And maybe we never will. The universe's silence is deafening but it's also humbling. It forces us to look inward, to find meaning in our questions rather than our answers. Maybe the meaning of life is not something to be found or even discovered but something created. The universe doesn't owe us explanations, but it gives us tools to explore, imagine, and connect. And in the act of wondering, whether through science, philosophy, or cinema, find something profoundly human.

Maybe the next time I feel that existential nausea, that dizzying sense of smallness in the face of infinity, I'll try to see it differently. Not as a void to be feared but as an invitation: to think, to dream, and to marvel at the mystery of it all.