“What is the meaning of what I see,” the ego will not ask.
It would rather have me spinning, distracted, running from task to task.
Keeping me so busy I will forget it all but masks
The answer to the question, “Is my future just my past?”

Nothing I see holds meaning; nothing is ever what it seems.
A puzzle? A picture? A pathway? All are pointless, idle themes.
We never probe the purpose, “What’s this for? What does this mean?”
And until we stop and question, we are puppets on a string.