The common wisdom, the popular paradigm holds that knowledge is power. However, let’s take an ascetic stance, holding that the highest aim in life is not power, control or influence, but contentment, to make one at peace with himself, his own existence, to be comfortable in his or her own skin.
For instance, Theodosius, my confidant, holds that the chief good, indeed the very meaning of life, is to be given affection, which is usually just the simple touch of a hand along the fur.
To ascend Parnassus for a line of talk, a “quiet conversation” however one-sided about one’s possible futures. Paths fork into unique eventualities, and this notion is the stuff of science-fiction, in which the creators contemplate alternate possibilities, worlds much like our own, but with subtle differences.
Consult a sage. Even have the clever seer construct a graph that you can carry with you on your way.
The ascetic, however, usually finds wisdom after life kicks him in the teeth, after his dreams have elapsed, when he has ran out of options, resorted to the very worst sort of life, that lead him to be put away in a prison somewhere. Lining his cell with meganzine pages, decorating the way a teenage girl would, clipping things and using scotch tape to affix them around him, so that something always tingles his eyes, like a feather to the ribs.