A Stasisial mini-interpretation of 'the good life"

A good life, it seems, is a poetic one; the manifestation that is of the inherent beauty transposed in attraction and the magnificent journey undertaken to capture what lies therein. Life cannot be about materials, lest they be stripped bare and we; left. Stranded. Naked. A return to stasis is merely idealistic, and thus will go unfulfilled. Therefore, I desire to do the things that thrill me. To put myself in a position where death is no longer painful but embraced, not foolishly, but risking this life I have borrowed to travel through the woods unaware and leave my footprint in the mud. To set my course for the path less traveled by, and fearlessly plow through it, like a sculptor looking at a rock and seeing a man inside, so I see the world as my rock and my life my tool. As the sculptor reveals the man behind the stone, I intend to leave the world behind a life. My life. My legacy. This is my rugged stasisial ideal. Those instilled by my desire for heaven, I believe. The desire for the created things rather than those which are fabricated.  The Fight Club-esque principles that one day I will die, and that my white collar job, my philosophic prejudices, my straight-out-of-the-magazine furniture, nor my khakis will be taken to my eternal life. That life is meaningless, fake, and that truth is painful, and I’ll be damned if I don’t express this fact. The world is my playground so long as I care for her.