We are also caught up in our own feedback loops, as linear, goal oriented creatures in a cyclical, circular, reciprocal reality. Presumably there is some pot of gold, literal or figurative, at the end of the narrative arc, or life is meaningless.

Though what drives us is the fact of our desire, not the objects of it. Some, Stoics, Buddhists, say to tone it down and turn it off, but it's life, that flame within, looking for both order and transcendence.

The divine is the essence from which we rise, not ideals from which we fell. We are flowers.