What is the meaning of life?
What are the states of things?
Who’s to blame?
Who am I?

Questions of human existence plague the psyche. They capture, from time to time, the mind’s eye in a rhythmic trance, like a heartbeat, ever present but at times demanding recognition for its importance. A grip under which we can only become accustomed, but never escape, until death.

Some people seek to describe this squeeze. What does the weight of life present to them? Others quantify; measuring the pressure that comes with the responsibility of consciousness. Many avoid it all; dutifully, and plenty successful. Others evade only to hasten their own demise, or any number of inconsequential ends.

That is our nature: to try as we see fit and are capable, until unable or unwilling. There is a beauty in serving such a solemn purpose. Elegant in its simplicity; enough, even, to salve the soul.

Yet the mind yearns for meaning, and inspiration, and all the faces of feeling that capture and catalyze the best of our selves and our most tremendous feats. The most we have to offer.

We should seek no less a path than the one that resonates with our primal and elevated whole. A rage: true and just. A fury, operationalized, and balanced among our many needs, wants, dreams and truths. Regardless of success, or satisfaction.

As we are — trying — is enough.

To laugh fully.
To love truthfully.
Searching for what may come.
Cherishing all that was, and is.