One day, there was a painter in his house, painting.
This painter, he had a son. A young boy, curious like his father; and like his father once was: demanding answers.
On this day he walked up to his father and asked:
"Father, you spend so much time here. We have hardly any money and this is all you do. Why do you paint?"
His father continued to move his brush and replied,
"Because it is what I enjoy doing son, and there is no more explanation than that."
His son, dissapointed with his answer, refuted:
"Father, we are poor and hungry. I have no toys like the other children I play with, no hat to keep the sun off my face on hot days, I have nothing. Why do you waste your time with this, why don't you work in the factory Father? Why do you waste your time? Why don't you make yourself useful so we can have what we need?"
His father's brush had stopped moving. A gate of silence had descended over the painter's eyes.
After a few moments, a smile flecked across the corner of his mouth. With two hands he took his son, placed him on his knee, looked into his eyes and said:
"Son, because there simply are no needs."
Beauty is in the superflous,
take this world for example.
It could do without life, without animals, without plants and trees and birds and dogs and butterflies and wolves and humans,
without us.
And it would be uncluttered, organised, sorted, simple.
But would it be beautiful?
No, it would not.
"But the stars, the galaxies, the moon in the night sky! They are enthralling, magical, beautiful!"
;you may attest
But it is only so, because you are there to see it.
Because you are alive and the light shines in your eyes.
It can exist without us, but without us, without you, your mind, your soul: it all has no purpose.
Without us, without the superfluous beings we clutter we are, it all means nothing.
Without us: it is all superfluous.
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