Some people, in middle age,

find a vague awareness rising from nether regions
that any kind of faith (religious or personal) is just
a sticking-plaster and therapy for depression
and anxiety about the meaninglessness of life.

A decade or two later, an awareness of the sheer
ridiculousness of life bubble up from one's wrinkled loins,
and one rejoices in its brevity.  This blessed state
might be called joyous misanthropy, and is the
True Mother of Compassion.