The death today of my friend Marco Zamperini got me thinking again how easy it is to take life for granted. Someone with so much life force ceasing to exist makes that existence even more fragile and amazing.

We protect ourselves from that fragility with attempts to confer meaning: this is good/this is bad; this matters/this doesn't; I love this/I don't love that. We string meaning into stories that create a heaven or a hell. We fight wars over our stories, we commit suicide because of our stories. But they mean nothing. They are made up. They are not reality. Reality is everything we experience, the good and the bad, whether we like it or not.

There is little point in spending our lives fighting what is - when we know, deep down, that one day it isn't.