My mood is as grey as the sky and I question.

I reflect upon my life, my friends, my lovers, my very purpose in being here.  As the time flows on, there seems to be no real purpose to my life.  No real goal.  No consuming passion.  We are born. We travel through.  We die.

I question whether that is really all there is and that we are fools only when we consider there might be any other purpose. If we add the possibility of a God, Goddess, or Being orchestrating all this, our will is unimportant.  The Shakespeares and Mozarts and kings and Picassos have been chosen and their scripts are written with a careful hand.  How dare we think we can intrude upon that grandiose plot with our little lives. The guru who meditates all his life to reach nirvana seems no more strange under those circumstances than the success or goal oriented person striving to somehow “improve” the world.

We take up space. We do our job. We bear our children, We sweat and weep and strainfrom the burden of living, only to die and become fodder for another beginning.

One must ask why we cherish so highly this temporal thing we call life. Why do we make such a simple task so complex?  Why not accept the parameters and scale and just move from day to day and deal with what comes to each of us? Why do we, as humans, bring complexity to our lives with emotions and self doubt? Is that why so many seek solace in a belief in the Almighty or Jesus or Buddha or Mohammed? Are we always searching for that perfect union which only comes with death?  A cynic would laugh at such serious struggle and point out the futility of the search, for the map is there and each of us just paws to be moved around the game board at the appropriate pace. Why fight?  Why search?  Why struggle?  Silent resignation should be the key action plan.

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