If I have found purpose in the head of a plant, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants. (09)

I walked further into the realms of isolation, and stumbled across what can only be described as a giant's shoe. A great wad of tanned leather, torn from the foot of a colossal being. It made me think that I wasn't alone, and also how wasteful the human mind was, in that with this great expanse of perception and thought, every person has succeeded in feeling alone at some point in their lives. 

There are great microcosms of living organisms that surround us, sealed in like trillions of buzzing atoms in a jam jar. Sometimes it takes the remnants of living particles, or a metaphorical death for us to realise this. In this case the idle shoe of a giant.

I am reminded of a Jean Paul Sartre phrase, lodged in my memory. "If you are alone when you're by yourself, you are in bad company." 

Whilst still thinking about giant garments of clothing, I wondered where the raw materials would come from to make such expansive items.  

I decided not to dwell on it.

A large metal contraption awaited my eagerness. My distinctly human tendencies came to the fore and I wondered what the object was once used for. 

What purpose did it have? I thought, reducing its existence to a past tense of unimportance, instead of thinking, what is its purpose?

Surely, I am still seeing it, imposing my own interpretations onto this infinitely pacifistic object, thus it has a purpose and is serving it, and, in turn, has no purpose in-itself, only of-itself. Bloody Jean paul Sartre! 

I learn that there is nothing to learn.

'Purpose.' Noun. The reason for which something is done or created.

I am somewhat angered by this term. Although I hold a high regard for purpose within my own work, I am all too aware of its dichotomy. An entirely fabricated means of ogranising objects in terms of importance. Selfishness really; the underlying attribute of all living things.

There is evidently a distinction between biological purpose, and conventional human purpose. One is imaginary, the other is not. 

Camus, and his Myth of Sissyphus epitomises my thinking. 

The purpose of a wing is to make something fly, the purpose of an eye is to turn light into a computable image, the purpose of an ear is to convert waves into sounds. The purpose of the metal contraption was anything I implied.

I came across thousands of sprouting plants from up through the pleasingly spongey vegetation that quilted the floor, all sharing the same unconscious desire.

The purpose of the plant, as the purpose of the human, were identical, and forever pushing boulders.

I felt hungry.