That dreadful universal thing. / Unless all candied over with art.

One thing that I have been learning lately is that I, and what's more, you, am/are inescapably tied to your nature as a being. This such nature goes unrecognized for the first while of your life, riding small and silent within your steps as you spend your childhood and adolescence in a gradually receding naïveté.

Without the least expectancy, and after shuffling through several identity subscriptions--music, clothing, habits--you trip upon some sharp hole and stumble into your place.

Not precisely. What you stumble into, really, is an anxiety about what your place is and how you ought to occupy it. You cast yourself into deliberation only to realize that your deliberations are your nature, that you are Nature's vessel. You are some thing that would not exist as you are if it were not for the unchangeable substance that constitues you. What are you without your nature? But would you attempt to claw your way away from such entrapment? Is that not continuing, proclaiming, your nature?

You are bound to that, then, bound for realizing the truth of your meekness. For there is a real beauty in becoming conscious of how little you matter. It is easiest to embrace when standing still within the sounds of a light snowfall, watching flakes float out of infinity upon trees and waste. To see these things as they are will show you as you are. Now go out there and be sad, anxious, overwhelmed, excited, comfortable, you.