In the eyes of an awakened being, 

we are all lamentable. 

Nothing makes a dung beetle’s day like a lump of feces.

Whether they roll it into a round ball, bury it, or inhabit it where they find it, the dung beetle lives and breathes dung. It’s their nursery, their source of food and water, their home. They might even attach themselves to the animal source and wait for the inevitable. Without dung, they are lost. And so they are apt to steal a dung ball, sometimes under the guise of helping another beetle.

From birth to death, their existence centers on dung, on something we deem repulsive.

What a miserable way to live we tell ourselves, as we grimace in disgust.

And with that, we return to our own existence and the things that make our day. We eat and drink. We raise our children and tend to our home. We interact with others to attain more of what we want, perhaps even through dishonorable means.

As human beings, we consider ourselves fortunate. As do the beetles. Both, however, are inordinately mistaken.