A toast to life where there is none

We bravely pursue a celebratory stance, and we forcefully pursue life with life through the symbolic gesture of a hearty toast, despite the fact that we know it to be nothing but an empty cup. We can see that but we try not to look. How often do we fete, or get feted, for things that doesn’t hold an ioata of a meaning? All has been senseless, and all others that is yet, will come to naught. For what purpose, rhyme and reason do we find the means and the courage to exult what which is nothing at all?