A Philosophical Tale on Life’s Purpose
In the manner of the old books, where wisdom was passed as stories around fires and in quiet gardens, let this be told.
The Wanderer’s Question
There was once a wanderer who walked through many lands, carrying within him a question that burned like a small ember: “Why am I here? What is my purpose?”
He had tried to extinguish it with work, with pleasures, with the noise of crowds—but always, in the stillness of night, the ember glowed again.
So he set out to find the answer.
The First Teacher: The Keeper of Duty
In a land of ancient rivers, the wanderer met an old keeper of sacred texts. The keeper spoke of dharma—the sacred duty woven into each soul.
“You ask if life has a mission,” said the keeper, his voice like weathered parchment. “Listen: in the Bhagavad Gita, when Arjuna despaired on the battlefield, Lord Krishna did not tell him life has no purpose. He said: ‘You have the right to action, but never to its fruits.’ Your mission is not to grasp at outcomes, but to fulfill your nature—fully, bravely, without attachment.”
The wanderer frowned. “But how do I know my nature?”
The keeper smiled. “A river does not ask how to flow. It simply flows. Your dharma reveals itself when you stop forcing and start listening.”
From the Gita, the wanderer learned: Purpose is not a destination to be seized, but a path to be walked with devotion.
The Second Teacher: The Sage of the Mountains
Higher still, where clouds embraced the peaks, the wanderer found a sage who spoke little and laughed often. He followed the way of Laozi.
“Purpose?” The sage chuckled, pouring tea with infinite care. “The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao. You search for meaning as if it were a treasure buried in a field. But meaning is not hidden—it is everywhere, like air. You are already living your purpose. You simply do not see it.”
“Then what should I do?” asked the wanderer.
The sage gestured to the mountain stream. “Wu-wei. Act without forcing. The water does not struggle against the stone—it flows around, and in time, it shapes mountains. Your purpose is not to conquer life, but to move with it. Be like water.”
From Laozi, the wanderer learned: The purpose of life is not to impose meaning upon it, but to align oneself with the great unfolding.
The Third Teacher: The Poet of Fire
In a city of gardens and fountains, the wanderer met a poet whose words were said to make the dead weep and the living dance. This was a follower of Rumi.
“You ask about purpose,” the poet said, eyes bright as stars. “But you have asked the wrong question. Do not ask ‘what is my mission?’ Ask instead: ‘what am I seeking?’ For every soul is a drop longing to return to the ocean. Every heart carries a wound that is also a door.”
The wanderer felt something stir in his chest. “What am I seeking, then?”
“Love,” said the poet simply. “Not the small love of possession, but the great love—the love that burns away everything false, until only truth remains. Rumi wrote: ‘Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.’ That is your purpose: to remove the veils, until you see clearly.”
From Rumi, the wanderer learned: Life’s purpose is the soul’s journey back to its source—through love, through longing, through the courage to be undone.
The Fourth Teacher: The Scholar of the Heart
In a quiet school where students debated truth, the wanderer met a scholar who had studied the works of Al-Ghazali, the great thinker who left fame to seek God.
“Al-Ghazali was once the most celebrated scholar of his age,” the teacher said. “But he realized knowledge without transformation is empty. He wrote that the purpose of life is not merely to know, but to purify the heart—to polish it like a mirror until it reflects the Divine Light.”
“What does it mean to purify the heart?” asked the wanderer.
“To strip away arrogance, greed, and heedlessness. To cultivate sincerity, gratitude, and remembrance. Al-Ghazali taught that every human is placed in this world as a traveler—not to settle, but to prepare for what comes after. Your mission is to return better than you came.”
From Al-Ghazali, the wanderer learned: Life is a crucible for the soul’s refinement—each struggle, each joy, shapes the inner being.
The Fifth Teacher: The Monk of Compassion
At last, the wanderer came to a simple monastery, where a monk sat beneath a Bodhi tree—a follower of the Buddha.
“You have traveled far,” said the monk gently. “And gathered much. Now, let me offer you one more thread.”
“The Buddha taught that life is marked by suffering—dukkha—not as a curse, but as a truth to be understood. And he taught the way beyond suffering: the path of wisdom and compassion. Your purpose is not only to free yourself from confusion, but to ease the suffering of all beings.”
The wanderer sat in silence, feeling the pieces come together.
“Purpose is not given to you like a scroll with instructions,” the monk continued. “It is discovered in how you live—in kindness, in presence, in the service of others. The Bodhisattva does not ask ‘what is my mission?’ They simply see the suffering of the world and respond.”
From the Buddha, the wanderer learned: Purpose flowers naturally from awakening—and awakening is inseparable from compassion.
The Wanderer Returns
Years later, the wanderer—now older, quieter, with silver in his hair—was asked by a young traveler:
“Does a human have a mission? What is the purpose of life?”
The old wanderer smiled and spoke slowly:
“I have asked that question across many lands. And this is what I have come to understand:
You are not here by accident. There is a sacred duty—a dharma—that belongs to you alone, and it is found not by grasping but by listening to your own nature.
You are not here to force life into shape. There is a Way—a Tao—that flows through all things, and your purpose is to move with it, not against it.
You are here to love—not the small love of wanting, but the vast love that dissolves the self and returns you to the source.
You are here to polish the heart, to become clearer, kinder, more whole than you were when you arrived.
And you are here to serve—to see the suffering of others and respond with compassion, for in that response, your purpose lives and breathes.
So, does life have a purpose?
Perhaps. But better to say: you have a purpose. Not as something to find, but as something to become.
The ember you carry—tend it well. It will light the way.”
Closing Verse
In the words woven across these traditions:
“Fulfill your nature without attachment.” — Bhagavad Gita “Act without forcing; be like water.” — Laozi “What you seek is seeking you.” — Rumi “Polish the mirror of the heart.” — Al-Ghazali “Let compassion be your compass.” — The Buddha
Thus ends the tale of the wanderer—and perhaps, begins yours.
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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