On being

When we write we define who we are, or wish to be, even lament who we never were. This self examination changes nothing until we do something, an idea reminiscent of congress. The seed of the idea is to keep going by flowering and bear fruits not so much for ourselves but for others. As we trudge on our need and necessity to be productive beyond self sustenance eventually wanes assuming illness isn’t the real battle. Must we have a reason for being, or not being, that is a question?