Why, Mr. Anderson?

I have never been one for futility. And yet, much as I try, everything comes down to one thing: Futility. Whether I try or not try, whether I run with the flow or be head-strong, it doesn't seem to matter.

Agent Smith heckles: "Why, why, why, Mr. Anderson, do you keep on fighting?"

"Is it freedom or truth? Perhaps peace? Could it be for love? Temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect trying desperately to justify an existence that is without meaning or purpose?"

Could it be love? Indeed, could it be?

It's a heartache
nothin' but a heartache
Hits you when it's too late
hits you when you’re down
It's a fool’s game
nothin' but a fool’s game
Standin' in the cold rain
feelin' like a clown

So why indeed do I keep on?
Some seem to find some reason. Does not everyone find some reason? Does reason have any voice in it all?

In the end it all comes down to the primitive human gene set that keeps its cards on the table for as long as possible. In the end, the dream of joy and love is nothing but a fool's game, from where the pathetic human cerebrum desparately tries to wake.