They say that it’s insanity, this repetition of actions and thoughts and patterns. Insanity, or perhaps just habit. Or a circular argument. Nobody thinks the zen monks are crazy for carefully tracing circular paths in their isolated gardens. Repeating their motions, perfecting the moment and the motion and the result.
It’s not crazy, the search for perfection, or for happiness – not that they are one and the same, or even on the same spectrum. It’s not insane to fall down 99 times and get up 100. To dream after the death of a thousand other dreams. It’s not crazy. It’s the best kind of human.
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