Witness the imperfections in the world, and the myriad ways in which we fall short of our dreams and our plans. We reach, childlike, to pluck a star as if it were a low-hanging fruit. We stumble against our altars and crush them; we make bricks from the dust and burn our fingers on the ovens. We break ourselves and each other, and we try to mend with numbed and fumbling fingers. We cry, sometimes even for good reason.
See the pure in the world, and the beautiful, and the breathless surprise of love, all rude and unexpected. See the symmetry of even a breath or a blink, and the story told by every scar. Thinking too much? Well, what do you think?
Are you here to amass the greatest possible number of possessions, elbowing aside both people and principles? To reach the pinnacle of stability, safety and predictibility? To command the largest measure of monetary wealth? Or are you here to seek out this thing called love, seize it with both hands, embrace it and let it devour you completely, then spread it as far as you can before you fall? Isn't it your purpose to leave this broken world somehow better, more richly textured, more _odd_ because you were here?
I know what I'm choosing.
