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< Home, hearth, and family are key.
I once had big ideals. Save the world. Save my country. Save my town. Save my neighbours. Save myself. The "from what?" changed each year like the seasons of the media's panic.
In time these goals became exhausted and deflated, chewed apart by problems much larger than I could handle, as if I were trying to grapple the world.
Now my only ideals are tending a garden to restock the ladybirds, butterflies, ants, moths and spiders in my dry husk of a neighbourhood, of a district, of a city, of a country, of a planet filled with manicured astroturf, toxins, and dry, gravelly gardens.
In time my works will be wiped from history, but maybe, somewhere, will stand among a lifeless wreck of aphids, a red ladybird beetle that was born from the generations of my garden, and it will say "look on my wings, ye Mighty, and despair".
~bartender, a drink for my friend here to elucidate on the Humanist conversion of the world.