What if this moment is the last one I will enjoy sitting here composing a chapter in the story of life?

Playing the part of the miser, the hermit in the woods, the pauper, selling nothing, talking to himself because no other reality exists except self.

That last word, “self”…tenuous, at best.

If you had read every word written, every idea expanded, every emotion evoked by us humans, would you still believe in a nonrepeatable future?

Reaching into the past, grabbing four or five things, squeezing them into a ball and saying, “Here, try this,” famous last words, is what we do.

So what?

So what?

So what?

What we do “best”?

Best: a comparison against something else.

Deconstruct and reconstruct.

Yet another this, yet another that.

Getting back to the innocence of youth.

Feeling new again.

Looking up at the giant adults around you.

Separating the wise from the confused.

Sensing the independent individuals.

Listening intently, feeling fresh ideas flow.

Just another seedling harvested by grownups.

Can trees fly?