In the palm of my hand is a small creature. A tiny insect beast. Sturdy carapace. Brown armour. Antennae waving. Legs tickling over the pink of my skin. A life so small, I wonder at its purpose. The purpose of this energy, bustling over a monstrous terrain. The valleys, plains and slippery contours that make the panorama of my hand. The comparison of us. Large and small. And I wonder if I seem small, insignificant, to some other being. If my bustling and strife seems inconsequential. And I breathe into the moment. Laughing at my own self-importance. My stupid ego. Huge and railing and the unfairness of things. Happy to shrug off the mantle of want. The responsibility of getting it right. Happy to smooth the wrinkle of day to day zealousness from my forehead. Content to just sit in a warm patch of winter sun and watch the clumsy stalkings of a beetle.