You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.
Some people are never satisfied. And yet, what a strange, wondrous thing it is to exist at all. We cling to a marble that once spun, lifeless and frigid in the void, until chance, or fate, or something beyond naming hurled us into the golden sway of the Sun. Cosmic alchemy ignited, elements conspired, and life stumbled into being. Was it staggering luck or an impossible gift? Perspective is everything for a magician.
Our own personal and individual beginnings feel just as improbable. Think of the millions of sperm vying for a single egg, the near-infinite roads not taken. What if another had won the race? Would "I" still be here or someone else entirely? Would I ache with these same fears, love these same fleeting things? I struggle to know myself as I am; how could I fathom the selves that never were?
We are handed a single cup, cracked, spilling, never quite enough. One day, it empties. Until then, we drink anyway, even when the draft is right bitter.