My Idea of Being Human

I am human.
I seek to attribute meaning to things that just are
And find reason to purport some incredulous design
In the hope that I can convince myself that I have purpose
And that my life is not meaningless; but it is.
I crave to discover some homogeneous impetus -
A spiritual drive that propels me towards my life's meaning,
In the hope that I can accomplish the goal the Gods set for me,
Knowing that I have fulfilled my potential and not squandered life.
I look at art and find meaning within it. I read poetry and
Whatever emotions it stirs within me, I assert a connection
To my soul, fully knowing I may not have one. Not in
The sense that any religion dictates. This makes me human.
Yet looking up at the stars I feel insignificant, and I can't help imagine
Great cosmic forces presiding above, contesting
For dominance over this little, negatory plant which
Is nothing more than a spec in the universe's periphery -
Not to mention the incomprehensible vast network of
Galaxies and whatever else I know not of.
Why must we think ourselves so special?
I am told we are the pinnacle of creation, but I am off two minds,
And I cannot help but criticise any postulated creator who could
Have made us so imperfect then decided he loved us most.
Even I find more love for those creatures less capable of
Language than humans. They have a lot less to say.
If there is to exist, however, any single creator (which I cannot say I believe)
Then he/she/it must be a fickle, imperfect entity
Devoid of any omnipotence, omniscience and/ or benevolence.
I renounce the Abrahamic conception of a God.
Still, within me there is this urging, a spiritual compelling force,
Some would say, to find this one being, this supernatural agent,
And in an 'Aha!' moment realise, 'this is why things are;
This is how they are supposed to be.'.
I admit nothing more would please me than to reject the
Autonomy of all my thoughts and surrender them to a higher source,
Leaving me with little choice in a determined universe,
Further relieving me from my fundamental free will and eliminating
Alternative futures without my input. What fear would be extinguished!
And I, freed from freedom and choice, would be
Exempt from all judgement cast upon my character,
Because my actions have been predetermined without consent.
But, in this static path, this determined way, all sense of adventure is lost.
Where is the anxiety and nausea? The dizziness that accompanies freedom?
Am I not free to make meaning?
Does any such meaning exist without creativity?
Can I be a being capable of creativity if my actions are less free than slaves'
And determined by forces incomprehensible to me?
I think not.
I think therefore I am, and I think, therefore, I create meaning.
I do not doubt some things I cannot change that occurred so
Many years before me, but I have the self contained power of will
And freedom of choice to create meaning and form convictions,
And to follow them until my values evolve and opinions
Differ - which they should do if I am to possess any sense.
This is a poor piece of philosophy thinly disguised as free
Verse poetry with alternating line lengths and no
Real  rhyme scheme - the signature of this incoherent thinker -
But it has meaning to me because I attribute meaning to it,
And I am the only one who can accurately assert what
Is true for me, no more than I can readily extend that
Same service to you. It is folly to think otherwise; well, so I think.
Man is the measure of all things and meaning neither exists, nor is judged without him.
We are human.
We create meaning.
We author purpose.