Maybe  it’s  simpler than  we  think.  Maybe  it’s  not  purpose  or legacy  or  certainty . Maybe  it’s  just  this:  we are here to  feel things  —  brilliantly,  terribly,  all  the  way  through.  To  collect  the soft  data  of  living:  the ache behind  a memory,  the  flicker  of tenderness  in  a  stranger’s  smile,  the  low  static  of  regret,  the sudden  voltage  of  hope.  We are  built  of  feelings,  stitched  from them,  dissolved  back  into  them. Every moment  a  tiny  signal. Every  connection a  soft  wire.  If  there  is  an answer,  it  lives here — in  the  quiet architecture  of  everything  we  never  said out loud.