Butterflies and dragonflies and pillow-white clouds and setting suns. Another February come and gone and what really have we to show for it but a smattering of memories harvested for pensive nights and a few extra wrinkles collected at the corners of our eyes? I watched this evening a tiny insect jump off the leading edge of a jet engine and get immediately swallowed by the powerful rotating blades, its life no more inconsequential than mine and just as fleeting. I struggle these days with a sense of purpose only to be consumed myself with the vagaries of work and ever-changing human drama around me. What have we to show for anything? It's the perennial question, I suppose, and one intended and perhaps so designed never to be answered. Life, death, what have we at the end of it all but the impressions we leave on our fellow humans? What do we do to be truly happy? Do dragonflies ever dream?
