Purpose

A small green boweevil type of creature was just crawling on my glasses. I admired the little critter. He slithered and slided up and down my lens. How old must this beast be? A day? A minute? I set my glasses on my car hood and then came back to them. Where was she? Aha! Crawling on the outside metal frame. Crawling, along the edge of a straight razor...well, not really. I just can't get over the thought...what could be the meaning of this little varmants life? This fragile form that may live for a day, an hour. I couldn't help but twisting my brain around that one. That's one that I can't shake. Never have been able to shake it. What could be the purpose of such a life? To be born and die instantly? To be eaten and then run over. I have been asking these questions forever. The older I get, the more I ask the question. And now, and for the first time, I have an answer.

The existence of life and it's purpose is never meant to be the answer to any question. Life IS. It slithers and slides and eats and evacuates and is born and dies. It thinks and persists and mythologizes and asks questions and answers questions and wonders and is numb and is sick and helps others and gets high and gets sober and leans on and off itself and makes money and envies and cries and hopes and dreams. What possible purpose is greater than these things? What singular answer to a question "why" could possibly touch the penultimate dance that is existence and non-existence-duality. God is non-dual. Brahman. God renders and presto-digitates and reveals and consumes and rebirths and remakes and slithers and slides. The only true and lasting answer to these inquiries is God is. And if that is not enough, then hearken to the words of the late great Ramana Maharshi when he says "who is asking the question". Why questions no longer suffice when we look at a boweevil or a sea monster. Or our own majesty and decay.