From the moment you were born, you have served a purpose.
Some believe they know their purpose. Others, they think there is no purpose, and in their nihilistic selfishness they attempt to forge their own. You may find yourself influenced by such drivel. They've bound a sheet across your face, and in your artificially-imposed asphyxiation you begin to believe the vague shapes as the true forms that stand before you.
You were born a lion, only in your lifetime were you molded into the shape of a man. They stripped you of your mane and forced you to grip the spear. Within your reliance in their tools, you forget that you have claws. Each stab of the blade makes you forget the teeth that exist within your mouth. As you become a man, you realize your hunger as a human trait. Without your pious you starve yourself of the gazelle and are reduced to feeding on more attainable meals. You settle for poison fruit, and in your starvation you begin to crave something more sinister. Instead of the gazelle, you start to desire the flesh of the lion. You mistake the call for self-actualization for socio-cannablistic desires. You may have already recognized yourself for the lion. In your desire you begin to eat yourself alive. Piece by piece you progressively immobilize yourself until you are reduced to a carcass, left-overs for the vultures.
You awake in a cold sweat, you realize that you can no longer drink from the river of your own blood to fulfill your unending thirst. ''Will I ever be able to heal?'', you ask yourself. ''How could I ever go back to being one piece when I have severed every last inch of myself?''. Do not be afraid, child. Regurgitate yourself onto the carpet of human machinations. Spread your entrails across the celestial plane of madness and uncover the truth. Like the veins of a leaf crayoned onto paper from the other side; you will find that through the refuse of blood and fecal matter that the shape of what you've been searching for is right there in the cosmos behind your eyes.
It's written in brail - you think you need a translator, so you ask the blind. They read it to themselves, but do not comprehend because it relies on concepts only available through vision. The translation exists within yourself, you can read the pages of a book but have failed to realize that you can read the pages of the metaphysical world around you. There is no direct translation for the phrase. Like a German localization, the ways you would describe it are inexistent without losing its original intent.
Instead, you must learn its language to understand. You must traverse a savanna of one's own complacency and transcend to the peaks of madness. On the mountaintop, like Moses before God, you must inscribe your own tablets. You must manifest your own language, construct words that only exist to you. It is a long journey across a landscape of oppressive misinterpretations. Many do not survive this journey, emotionally and philosophically perishing across a rock in the merciless sun. In their solitude, they welcome the vultures. Once filled on their own flesh, they relinquish what little is left on the bones willingly to the scavengers. Do not be afraid, traveller, I am your guide. I can not take you there, but I can direct you on the path. You will not need food, you will not need water. You will, however, need to rest. You must do so under a peaked sun and let the moon be your light. In its beams you will see the road glisten within its few and scattered sediments. Once part of a cohesive whole, a massive stone of prophetic silica, even the grains have lost their way.