If: in this massive, infinite universe (more interconnected than cursive, than the metaphors we've yet to invent or witness the gravity of)
we are conscious--then how divine, how special.
Is not life to be enjoyed? Savored? Not hedonistically--that would be extreme waste--but delicately, with study, gratitude and perspective.
We Are: conscious, when no other animal seems to speak, nor do they paint, erect pyramids, craft plays or solder iron.
Though man does. Though I am free to witness it, engage with it, create it all my own.
Such a waste to worry, to consume trends, ingest the media, while all around us groundwater absorbs chemicals, icebergs melt, and man tortures man. In the middle path, flowers bloom, words exchange, wisdom grows and the tinkling of birdsong carries through the sky.
we are conscious--then how divine, how special.
Is not life to be enjoyed? Savored? Not hedonistically--that would be extreme waste--but delicately, with study, gratitude and perspective.
We Are: conscious, when no other animal seems to speak, nor do they paint, erect pyramids, craft plays or solder iron.
Though man does. Though I am free to witness it, engage with it, create it all my own.
Such a waste to worry, to consume trends, ingest the media, while all around us groundwater absorbs chemicals, icebergs melt, and man tortures man. In the middle path, flowers bloom, words exchange, wisdom grows and the tinkling of birdsong carries through the sky.
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