There is to be a show. I am to put one on. Less than a week to go. And here I am, interrupting my own preparation.
I wonder. At what point does memory become history? And, at what point is desire too corrupted by selfishness so that nothing pure is left remaining?
I ponder upon the benevolence of my habits. And whether the romanticism of some had rightly earned its place to die. And if I, as some personal Dr. Frankenstein, unnaturally keep them alive. I’m aware of the ones that are quite plainly barbaric, or some synonymous equivalent. Outside of those, there are the ones that…
Another solar spin and begins again the rebranded pondering. The reflection upon choices made as age wins another round in the meander forward. There is a sink full of dirty dishes, and here I am doing this.