I’m letting myself go deeper into images, visions, processing emotions and thoughts—everything that touches me. There is no good or bad, but right and not right. I’m moving forward, leaving traces and making my next move clear to me. Warmer, warmer. Yes, that. Keep going.
How on earth could any of that have meaning? Any use?

I’ll take a small detour from the meaning of art. From my perspective, there are similar matters here.
To think about the meaning of life, I think about death.
What is it like to be alive?
I have a body, a mind, an ego, emotions, thoughts, views. How is it to have no body?
Hypothetically, if I assume that an outside-of-the-body experience is possible, it would not be connected to any physical conditions: hormone levels, emotions, pain, pleasure, worries, and so on. It would be pure witnessing.
My ego is rooted in my body. I want it to look good. I want it to feel pleasure. I want to have nice things and enjoy them. But there is no one to enjoy them without the body. There are no neurons to experience emotions and feelings, no blood to rush, no skin to be touched.

This leads me to the idea that life equals experiencing.
Feeling throughout.
Sometimes I fantasize about what it would be like if we were part of a complex, much bigger creature—something like a celestial body—and we were some kind of bacteria serving as taste receptors, papillae on its tongue.
Perhaps our purpose would be to feel and evolve.
To be clear, I’m not religious. There is no worship of the great celestial body in this idea.
If life equals experiencing, then art is a way to increase the volume.
It is a catalyst.