There’s the old theory that we’re just circulating the drain of death through mythical distractions from an innate want, need, aspiration to spread seed.
This motivation need not reason. It’s the inner drive that got us here in the first place. Our consciousness, this right now that you’re visualizing in your head in relation to its significance to your existential self, is just a backseat driver to our mere existence whose essence is a composition of chemical reaction wanting to release itself.
Any further investigation is an attempt at poetry: an end goal that mimics our ejaculation but letting us experience ecstasy without cumming.
Thus, from a given event, we can structuralize its completion towards an end that justifies its own conception. As a simile, any current animal alive is alive because its ancestor justified their conception by reproducing again.
Consciousness, while a loop, realizes its loopyness through a structuralization of cumming without cumming. A poem, of sorts.
The world’s a stage to come.