Life was not meant to be a Game

The vine springing forth from the muck finding the source for life prior to dying is not a game. It is life. It is its meaning. The distorting winds pushing him to and fro along his search. Blind he reaches out, and the Suns rays penetrate, though it wonders “Why?What?How?”, not. For there is nothing in the vine that should question such things. Get there it must, the inclination to persevere, to the palace it knows not of where, to be nourished by what it knows not of. Yet considers not where the inclination arises. For it is life itself. A few drops of water, a quenching rain. Its roots take hold. Its destiny to become the Fertile Ground, that now nourishes it. Not game nor dreamed up dream, this is the real of which there is no other. Words can only paint pictures that point, but there remains the dimensionless Stillpoint of the Turning World.