What fools we are, what muddy-minded fools, sludge-hearted and heavy. What lives we live, lolling in some swampy current with closed eyes, hardly aware enough of ourselves to know anything beyond our bodies. Our bare bodies are all we know, and barely.
What do we choose? We don’t choose. We groggily found ourselves to have been born into this brown Earth. We’ve slowly grown like gnarled tree branches, which know nothing, which pick no direction, but merely follow nature’s inevitable arbitrary course. The branches grow, crooked and spindly; they blossom blindly; petals peel away to leaves; leaves ripple into red, then rot. And we? We grow, we act, we are amazed by mysterious passions that thrash us like winds from within… these passions, too, must follow their course… they must rush and curl away, fade to gray… our flowers too must fall.
We are as passive and patterned as trees, then. What difference does a mind make if it can only watch and wonder at its own nature?