Seeking the parents of our lives, like benevolent trees. 

My mind plays three games with me, often: Logic, poetry and play. Like rolling down a hill, I often get carried away by a chaotic madness, fitting piece after piece together, of the substances that make up life. There is great satisfaction in the world of rational construction, especially when exploring the human being. We are constructed by such fascinating materials, all existing only because of their relation to each other, and within their relations there are infinite mysterious variables that lead to more and more paths of inquiry. 

But we can get lost in the world of reason. In our tumbling, we must pause and remember poetry. We must blink our eyes and take in the purity of the air, of the red twigs against the green grass speckled with white. We must do this and forget to break vision down into cones and rods, we must breath and forget the functions of oxygen. We must feel our beating hearts and remember what, and whom, increases their intensity.

But play, who can forget play in the scope of being. Without play, poetry would feel empty, reason would feel hopeless. Here, we celebrate relation in its purest benevolence. We celebrate joys, passions both large and small. We celebrate smiles, we celebrate noses, we celebrate toeses. Play is when we both forget and remember. Play is when we stop caring and care the most.