How can I feel so small and sad in a world with such natural splendor, easy magnificence and brilliant thoughtless beauty.  Golden grass covering the field higher than my messy hair.  Shiney leaves reaching over me.  Slashed bushes already knee-high, rebirthing themselves with leaves knowingly smiling: We will win in the end and cover the earth when you are gone.

So what is the purpose of thoughtful worrying figuring out mental mastrubating humans–just to realize that the mind is just a futile gamester?  To be co-creative?  What can I create that is valid, worthy–oops there’s that judgment again.

Shall I just enjoy a little castle in the sand and smile as my time tide melts in into the earth?  If there is no beginning and end, it is the act of building–from being to action to manifest–that is the thing.  Not preserving or press release photos or even any response.

The question “What matters?” is a trick.  There is no meaning but what we make.  No fate but what we make.  And that is pure freedom.  Freedom reverts me to stillness…until that mental manipulator messes with me again with what “matters.”  Meaning is over-rated, but stillness is always precious.

Maybe I was asked: “Why do you want to be human?” and I answered, “Because I can.”