Going back to the beginning

 So much men pin their hearts upon !

When all is said and done we are a funny lot, planning and scheming, hoping, gambling with our time trying to make reason with our disappointments and not a little surprised when thing go right.

From morning till night we follow well trodden paths, rituals of behaviour, finding peace in the routine as if the repetitive act is an acknowledgement that we are on course to get through another day. 

Where did the joy of discovery go, when did the thrill of another relationship no matter how brief made us feel alive, when we're the uplands places to find and conquer, to tick off, an attainment to add to our ever growing experience.
We give in to conformity, uniformity, and the deformity of ourselves in so many ways in this passage through the one and only life we have.
Some, many are contented with the scraps they have managed to pick up. A little battered and bruised  but on the whole satisfied to have come through it with a commemoration, he/she was a good person who did no harm.
Is that enough ?  Would it be better that he was a terror who lived his/her life on the edge, always looking for new ways to experiment and find what it was that we were born for.
Now there is a question. We're we born to achieve or simply exist. We're we born to question or we're we born to accept our lot with the rest. Was there a reason for us being alive, a deep fundamental reason for doing what we did when we did it or we're we like the herd, just following the one ahead.
Society is constructed it didn't just come into being. It depended on our birth, we are expected to fill the role provided and therefore, within a narrow constricted space we were cajoled into mimicking others, like animals in a circus repeating the same tricks.
As we become less useful we are allowed off the treadmill to look around for the last time at the world and our place in it. We see ourselves, sometimes for the first time without the garment of work or provider, a garment which we had gathered around ourselves for all these years as if in a play, the cloak pronouncing who we were and what was expected of us. Shorn of the part, without the character to play we have to reinvent ourselves, in a sense go back to the beginning when without clothes we were what we were.