We are not built for this, strictly speaking. What we are made for, or why we are made for it, is a question that will not be answered here or most likely anywhere else. But we can say, because we move through life in this certainty, that what we are given is not necessarily enough. We are born with certain capacities and a certain ability to enhance them, but then we are also given this world. Which we in turn conspire to make somehow more difficult.This new difficulty is born of innumerable big and little violences, of desperate thirsty vanity and towering smallness and impacted, deadhearted cynicism. That and all the other subsidiary malfunctions and misshapes of the spirit—beautiful at birth, or at least hopeful—that are our attempts to compensate for that one unanswerable truth, which is that we cannot change what will not change, not on our own and not in the sort of imperfect coming-together that our fearfulness allows us. We cower in the long shadow of this realization. We are not built for this, and it is not built for us.In the most quotidian sense, we see this build over the course of a week. Not as we can watch a tower climb towards its topping-out point, but in the way that we might watch the tide rise. The waves arrive as they have always arrived, they move up not steadily but surely. From where we sit, in our small selves, we see only what we can see: the beach seems to shrink and the ocean seems to grow. If we are not careful, or if we do not remember that we can rise and move, this can seem a lot more dreadful than it is: an advance and a receding, progression and collapse, over and over without end or meaning. But we can rise and move.We can take these insufficient selves and turn our backs on that, and move these shabby vehicles through the world—not built for us, but carelessly beautiful all the same—to where we want to go. We can confront a game that is not for us to play, really, and that we are not equipped to play—our brains too small and our legs too short and our bodies too fluffy and tubular and low to the Earth—and we can play it. This is the answer to the unanswerable, if there is one. It is to stare down another week, another month of a thing we do not understand and cannot change, and to jump at it, make little silly barking sounds at it, bat at it with our little ridiculous hands and noses. There it is. There we go. Get after it. Don't stop until you get enough, and enjoy your weekend.