My dear, sweet, devoted readership! After having our offices here at Three Rolls and a Pretzel virtually inundated with different blog requests, we've decided to settle roundly on the quite indisputably intriguing question of purpose:
what is it, and from whence; what of its hows and its nows, to say nothing of its brown cows ostensibly bereft of purpose but whoso are, in fact, perfectly molten with imperative, cheesy or otherwise.
To begin, purpose is born at birth, a myriad different mechanisms, old with memory, lying in wait in quite perfect silence for the moment to sound. Nerves and muscles more, ten thousand gestures scrambling to be heard in the race that time began.
And they're off!
Continuing, then, at a brisk trot, we have purpose squinting uncomfortably in the light of consciousness, hugging the darkness before being duly appropriated by the intruder, debased to such lowly stations as: "I didn't do it on purpose!"
Humiliated, it recedes back into the nerves and muscles, back into its native darkness while consciousness looks for it unrelentingly but without repenting for its first, and, if you really want to hear it, original, sin.
So it is, then, that we look everywhere it is not, allowing a perfectly ridiculous, harmless-ful thing like the world to dictate our purpose in a delirious attempt to recover it outside of ourselves.
Repent, oh ye of the world, repent, and let purpose find you again.
No comments:
Post a Comment