Existilism by Camus

The last three pages in Camus seem to be a miniature manifesto of our protagonist Meursault in which we finally break through his unwillingness to speak about his views. This is at once ironical, seeing as how he is the narrator, and beautiful as he goes into a nihilistic rant that surely anyone intellectual or not has had at some point.
What does it matter?
That seems to be the large question which has taxed not only Meursult and everyone with a reasonably developed frontal lobe.
Seeing as how this blog is devoted to semantics, I feel that it is only appropriate to present the most taxing and unanswerable question that humanity deals or sometimes and probably more often ignores.
Meursault doesn't seem to think that "it" in fact does not matter.
"But I was sure about me, about everything, surer than he could ever be, sure of my life and sure of the death I had waiting for me. Yes, that was all I had. But at least I had as much of a hold on it as it had on me. I had bee right, I was still right, I was always right. I had lived my life one way and I could just as well have lived it another. I had done this and I hadn't done that. I hadn't done this thing but I had done another. And so? It was as if I had waited all this time for a moment and for the first light of this dawn to be vindicated. Nothing, nothing mattered, and I knew why. So did he. Throughout the whole absurd life I'd lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was living. What did other people's deaths or a mother's love matter to me; what did his God or the lives people choose or the father they think they elect matter to me when we're all elected to the same fate, me a billions of privileged people like him who also called themselves my brothers? Couldn't he see, couldn't he see that? Everybody was privileged. There were only privileged people. The others would all be condemned one day. And he would be condemned, too. What would it matter if he were accused of murder and then executed because he didn't cry at his mother's funeral?" (Taken from the 1989 version translated by Mathew Ward)
Sorry so text heavy but I don't like to leave out portions of text (I don't really feel as if I have the authority).
What it seems like he is getting at here is that we are all privileged to be alive and therefore why do we need to put any specific meaning to existence? Shouldn't it be enough that we are alive in the first place?
I don't necessarily want to put out my specific opinion but would like to hear from you all.

PS. I hope not to write such lengthy post in the future, it was just hard to pick a few lines that were especially moving to write about.