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Letter to a Stoic

The initial statement cannot be true, surely there was leadership before readership, for writing lagged the leading, in ancient moors.
So what is it that lead, surely it wasn’t from this very act in flight, but far more telling in its expression remaining on cool damp stone, what later were called walls.

So it is not in the reading, of word, and text, for if it was, schools and university would have solved a great many more issues,than current key performance indicators indicate.

So what is it, this reading, what is the function? Truly? To sense, to sense, attentive, attentive, like a scientist not in name, but in function, to sense between sense, to intuit between intuiting, thus is intuition, a great fruition, going, diving, so willing, between, and yet again, deeper and deeper not in depth, nor in measure, but in resolution, yet not loosing grip, like the bee leaning into the precious flower, more and more, for nectar pleasant. And of this leaning, a little pollen, rubbing off, for polli-nation, to spread creation — words, posh, please, only ever, always so, lagging indicators of intuition, burnished by intellect and might, for it only will be, is, and was progress from, those willing to go between, rather than copying, and lecturing, from fancier stages, than those labs of discovery, carnal in learning, like nature yearning.

Yet alas, the bee, that beautiful creature, that feeds its young, and copies and clones, with frightful technical grace, exacting, from central command, singular in opalescent embrace, a queen, a matriarch, of supreme instruction, the one percent, to her race of the ninety-nine, yes… like an emperor to which all attribution traced, the drones salute, for without her, from their perspective, this competition is all for naught.

Yet those out there, know, that without the bee, and it would not spread, and they also know without that flower, that branch, that fungus, that carbon dioxide, this entire rich life, none of this… would be alight.

‘We’, as a herd of human, notorious in notoriety, superimpose the technicality of artificiality, upon reality, which is only fancy in heuristic, in characteristic, and so fast is this desire, burning… illuminating to the neighbor, here, those standing guard to these doors, looking across the short field of grass and moss, to brothers and sisters of insect, and in a friendly nod to plant and animal, that we do not give its secret to that tree across, named knowledge, crossed, for of it naught is the prime given, for it is received, and gifted only to those no more competing in wealth and bit… for only one is deserved of creation, and it is not me, nor they, nor i, and as it is not that, it is not we. Such is the garden given, and sitting calm, back to a curved surface of wood and bark, upright, ardent, and calm in wisdom…
No dear stoic, it’s not your life. It’s just life, and please, do take better care of it.