Perhaps the spirit, if there be a spirit (and there is), will speak through these words I write. If there be a spirit, it surely is capable of doing so. I get up, and trust that it will blow through my day, so none of my steps will be in vain. I trust it for its sense of purpose. Otherwise, my life is little more than scheduled events rattling around in a can. 
I had a friend once who became utterly devoid of this sense of which I speak. He began drinking, when temper tantrums no longer did the job of capping his despair. Then he shifted to pills, made available when his doctor prescribed them for headaches. He became a walking zombie, but strangely content. He's a metaphor for what we often become, whether or not we resort to his tactics, when we lose purpose. How much of the jangle of life is an effort to collectively distract ourselves from how lost we feel! (How else do we describe the Superbowl?)
Today, though, I will begin with purpose. But how? I'll read from some ancient writings. Why? I can't avoid the conviction that if they've been around as long as they have, that they might have something worth tending to. "But, what if it's just old crap?" I hear you say. Could be. But, many things have grown in old crap, and have scarcely grown in anything else.