Is it all vanity? Grasping for wind?
The frivolities of happiness, the needless binding of melancholy
, the ferocity of anger, the anchoring weight of oppression,
the self-exaltation of condescendence, the seducing deception of pride.
All these and more are vanity. All is without purpose.
Purpose is nothing to one who abhors the nature of instinct;
loathes egocentricity, the vial constant of human kind.
Is survival enough? May I be satisfied with only a beating heart?
Are any of these with purpose or object beyond what we define?
Certainly human measure is not the only measure of value.