..but never finish them.
Why must life demand to be so enigmatic? Life goes on and on complaining that no one is paying attention, throwing unforeseen circumstances right and left like a two-year-old having a tantrum, meanwhile expecting what? Hot chocolate before bed? That curious unreceived wanted attention from fathers and mothers that results in something broken, angry parents and too much eye contact? Oh life. In time's dungeon you toil away plotting, planning, dreaming of your final escape into a green eden paradise, taking quietly back what was thought to be freely given. What would I do for a moment of escape? Ahh, to be a Libertas, an eluder. Would my hands stop looking older? Stop growing, slowly, furtively more wrinkled and worn?
Ah Lord, if "Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom," (Soren Kierkegarrd) be my steady chair.
This is good.
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