The very meaning of a 'Meaningful Life ...'

Recently while on one of my endless drives back from office I was assaulted with a question. Endless because the traffic crawls slower than an earthworm and assaulted because I was a million miles away trying to breakdown the theory of the infamous Freudian slip. (After Willy he's next ...)

She : What do you think is the meaning of having a meaningful life ?
Me : Whoa !!! Where did that come from ??? (To both myself and her)

She : No. Generally.
Me : Well...
(Suddenly jolted out of my reverie ... I managed not to come up with an instant answer which would in any case have been very hollow)
Me : I think .... It could mean different things to different people ... (my voice faded off)

All possible answers beginning from the mystical to the mythical and even the metaphysical seemed to flow through my head but nothing clicked.

In the very awkward silence that followed the sound emanating from my car's stereo seemed rather loud ... I turned it down. The traffic moved another pace but the silence remained unbroken. On another day or at another time this question might not have instigated my brain cells the way it did then. Perhaps it was the intensity with which the question was put that forced me into a thoughtful coma ...

Next Day.

I enter office too busy with my 'To Do' list to lend any further thought to the question that had plagued my mind the previous day...
And then I saw it. A framed poster that's been hanging in my office for all the five years that I have worked here. Its a poster that displays the famous monologue voiced over by Mark Renton at the beginning of the film, Trainspotting.

And I thought maybe there's something here (pasted below) !!!

Its titled - Choose Life. Pardon the liberal use of the F word ... not my taste but it had to be a true representation.

Choose Life.
Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.

Choose your future.

Choose life.