Everything is in the doing — especially the waiting.

But what does a paradox like this mean? It implies that life is perpetual motion, where even relaxation is an action, a movement, an intent that is filled with force in the moment of its manifestation. Men can be found on every corner of the street, pouting their lips and whispering prayers into the wind, asking the gods to endow them with genuine meaning in the world. Most of them merely engender a wish for a right occupation, a fitting role they can play most successfully in this world of maya, yet they often waste all their time pondering the question, “what am I meant to do?”, without moving a single step in any direction.

Rarely does the miracle reveal itself by its own accord. Like a mold of clay, cut and chipped at night and day, the form reveals itself gradually through the conveyance of the man and his very own tools. The intent of what he wants — his aim or goal, so to speak — is infused within his heart as he plays with the materials at his disposal, never ever truly knowing what exactly it is he is doing. He ignores any mental distraction, those thoughts that beg for certainties and assurances, and musters all his vital force towards the act itself, with as little anticipation or expectation as possible.

To prototype (in latin, protos: “first” + typos: “impression”) is the beginning of creation, where nature, or the creator in question, begins the search by dabbling his initial vague impressions on the blank canvas before him. Ideas want to be expressed in the world, and they indeed need to be found, yet their discovery depends in half-measure both on them and the men who stumble somehow upon their tails. This is the soft secret, the subtle art, of bringing forth good fruits into the world and, at the same time, finding ones way into a rightful groove of what it is we are meant to do. To test and trial, practice and pan out the wheat from the chaff; where the effort itself reveals the forms waiting to be born.