The last thing I’d typed out was an obituary. The next thing, after this, will be a eulogy. So it goes.
Becoming acquainted enough with isolation starts to slide toward conditioning. And that is not necessarily a knock on the notion. In many ways (metaphysically and the sort), we are very much set apart from all the rest. The isolation of identity. The alone of the mental innards. Though closeness might be attempted and achieved,…
We don’t get here much, anymore. Unfulfilled obligations to thine (mine) own self, along with all the others. A real festive sentiment.
How thin is the line between passion and habit? The space dividing perspective and obsession? Is it vast, or but a miniscule difference that even an observationally endowed beast might still fail to see?