Here, another mildewed overture on a wallowed chair. Sometimes I wonder of the lengths we go to establish our own reason. I think about it often, but surely, there is prophecy in every spent moment, forward or back. Right?
Maybe I'm getting older. Or that might only be the easy explanation, maybe it's these pensive moments that expose my lust and lacks: a lack-luster momentum and a penchant for both appetite and laze. More often than ever I feel like I exist in a bowling-ball rut. So shortly after sprinting, the fatigue envelopes me to sit and wait for sorting.
And no matter that it is today and today's end is fast approaching. It always seems this way, an everlasting waiting and wanting. Next is always more important unless it's now. And then that's over.
So next I ski the alps. Next I see the world. Someday I carve out my career, fund love, and find place. Somedays, life just feels like a pointed series of escalating dares.
