In the past, when the question of the meaning has come up, I've always felt I was kidding myself. Given my age and lack of life experience, how could I possibly know?
Not only that, even if I thought I knew what the meaning of life was, how could I be sure enough to declare it? As a result, I've given up trying to answer this question; there's no guarantee of a meaning, and if there is, there's no guarantee its knowable. And let's just say for a moment it is both real and knowable: is it even worth knowing? It's more trouble than its worth, in my opinion.
Camus believed the universe was inherently meaningless; Hesse believed that the meaning of life was self-realization. Though these are conflicting ideas, I find myself grasping at both of them.
Meaning isn't a simple enough question where one can fully submerge themselves into one bucket of thought; our own opinions and ideas are collages of those we find in the wild.