Things don’t have purposes, as if the universe were a machine, where every part has a useful function. What’s the function of a galaxy? I don’t know if our life has a purpose and I don’t see that it matters. What does matter is that we’re a part. Like a thread in a cloth or a grass-blade in a field. It is and we are. What we do is like wind blowing on the grass.

∆ Ursula K. Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven

"Think lightly of yourself and deeply of the world."

— Miyamoto Musashi

The way that "commitment" gets warped and misused by workaholics, perfectionists, and those with an unrelenting impulse to control themselves, others, and therefore imagine that they're controlling life and outcomes.

The provisional life might be defined as a vague malaise: current relationships, work, and lifestyle feel like placeholders until the 'real thing' arrives—someday. If early life circumstances made over-conforming to others' needs and expectations necessary, persona can be over-developed and shadow denied

find the secret humour everywhere. all of it is drenched in subtle hilarity