I am not comfortable in the world. Everyone is more beautiful than I, and I do not know what I am doing here.
I do not know what I am doing here, and do not know what I am good for. I can observe (and serve in doing so) but what? And why? The world is emerging around me moment by moment, arising in some ongoing unstoppable explosion, and yet it remains mute, or perhaps too crazy with the exhilaration of the effort required to forget the question.
I imagine the crazy algae-green bubble of this planet, pirouetting forward, its surface a welter of activity, a thin veil of chaos over the ordered process of its orbit, and imagine the frenetic crescendo of human creation and chatter. I imagine me, still and questioning, at the center of it, and so very out of place.