In a secluded bamboo grove, a young monk named Koji sought answers. He sat cross-legged, the rustling leaves whispering secrets to him.
“Master,” Koji asked, “what is the purpose of life in this seemingly meaningless world?”
The old master, with eyes like ancient stones, smiled. “Koji, observe the bamboo. It grows tall and straight, reaching for the sky. Yet, it knows not why.”
“But Master,” Koji persisted, “why do we seek meaning if life is like the bamboo?”
The master plucked a leaf and held it up. “This leaf,” he said, “is both unique and insignificant. It dances with the wind, nourished by rain and sun. Its purpose? To be.”
Koji pondered. “But surely there must be more.”
The master chuckled. “Ah, Koji, meaning is like mist on a mountain. Elusive, yet everywhere. Seek not answers, but presence. Embrace the dance of existence.”
And so, Koji sat among the bamboo, listening to the wind, feeling the earth beneath him. In that quiet grove, he glimpsed the heart of meaning—a paradox woven into the fabric of a meaningless world.
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