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.