purpose.

Is it to wait, and wait, and wait, until the right flash of inspiration comes along and laser beams fly out of your ears, the most magnificent of works taking shape as you release your final form and write the greatest... thing... man has ever seen?  Or is it to go on, regardless of consequence, regardless of how putrid and awful your work is, until you come across one jewel within the recesses of your head?

This isn't even my final form.

Is it to smile and say, "Not today", brushing it off like you brush off the offending strands of hair off your forehead?  Is it to avoid your cat because he makes your eyes well up with tears out of allergies, and not cuddle times?  Or is it to cuddle?

Can I haz cheezburger?

Or is it to lie defeated, tangled within the cavern that is your fluffy comforter, mocking yourself for producing the greatest of nothings?

I am no man.  Death!  Kill the halflings.  Where is Gandalf?  For I much desire to speak with him.  Frodo Baggins.  I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.  So it begins.  Gandalf Greyhame.  He has fallen, into shadow.  Look unto the east.  He was twitching.