Contentment and purpose
We don't get to decide if our actions are glorious: history decides this. A well-known phrase went: true glory consists in doing what deserves to be written; in writing, what deserves to be read. These are truly the most amazing things. We want to write, but truly, these things, of literature, of creativity (of happiness) are trite and tiresome, and have nothing to do with the ferocious war machine, that undergirds our every single swing, our every maniacal strike; and so we see, the purpose in life is found less in these simple, memorable things, and much more in definitive delights, in beautiful, or uplifting moments, and in life itself.
The fake essence of everyday things is in no way connected to that ethereal peace of mind that surrounds the palaces of normal activity, in which we find some kind of abode in a way that makes us believe what is right in the natural flow of methodologies. We are stuck in the believability, of essences and of stridentness, in which our ordinary renumerations are fickle and in a certain sense, regurgitatory. But the therapeutic world-view of normal things revives the remunerations of the normal order in which people sit around and hope for happiness, and so simply the world-work of happy reactions is given some supremacy in the entities of sheer redudancy and happiness in some normal essence, which means that we can, in fact, do what we can to change the normal world, or set a course to the normal workplace of happy identity in which the essences of the world become stuck or replaced, even though there is a consistent requirement, in the essence, of simple, reflectional correspondence in the truest way we can recognize, the misery of dislocated firmament. And this is truly the requirement of silly identity, so that the hope for relocation is verily just oppressed, or somehow misunderstood.
