. . . as a walked deep in the forest of my own thought, I came across an old man, alone, questioning the sky.

"Old man," here am I, thrown into this confusing world before I even knew my name, fated to become feeble and frail like you, and then return to dust. You can tell me the meaning of his life?

"You on your journey," he said,  "must in your life do three things:

• plant a tree
• write a book
• raise a child

"Surely," I said, "you are but an old fool. Look about this forest, so filled with trees, each branch competing against the others for light, and already many of the trees' leaves wither. Any tree I plant will also suffer from the acid rain and whose know what kind of pollution. Where is then the meaning?

"Look about in any library or bookstore," I said. "So many books lie idle, many never read by any set of eyes. Books, there are so many. Where is then the meaning?"

"Watch the news, glance at the newspaper headlines, visit cities and countrysides, and you see so many children, unwanted by their families, plagued by hunger. Surely the world does not need yet another mouth to feed. Where is then the meaning?"

And he replied, "you do these things not to save the world, which you cannot. You write a book to gather up for yourself what you know. You plant a tree for the pleasure of watching it grow. You raise a child to give away yourself and allow part of yourself to explore the world beyond your limits. Plant your tree, write your book, and raise your child to fulfill yourself."