Finding meaning in anything

Only once was I ever depressed. My parents never recruited me into a religion, nor did they push me away absolutely, though probably more than they realize. They convinced me that there weren't any spiritual omniscient beings and that the idea was ridiculous, the latter coming naturally; if you're sure it's nonsense, the concept quickly becomes laughable. It's hard not to look down on people who you ""know"" believe in silly creatures, and I wasn't above it either. Even now, while I cognitively recognize we can't know, and much of the conclusion is almost evolutionarily determined, I'm as jealous as I feel superior. In the most respectable way I can. Because everyone, presumably, feels the same way (though they are wrong as I am right.) But then, one day, I realized that if not for the spiritual, except for being happy, there's no reason to exist, which took me by surprise for probably less than a minute, when I understood it meant I got to pick whatever I wanted, optimally one day forgetting it ever was a choice. I suppose the religious people might've figured this out quicker than me. And now, way too much like my parents, my art, words, family, and walks are my meaning.