I think of purpose. And destiny, if there is such a thing woven within the fabric of our doomed little sentience. I think of whys and if, and in so many ways, that makes me just like most others. Which then demands, in all its barbaric eloquence, the question of why it is I ever…
I don’t do enough, right? There’s stuff to be done, and here I go again, not doing. Guilt ridden in a world for me to maybe be a beam of better instead of all this not that I am.
Without any effort at all, the thought of ‘why bother’ sails across the forefront of my mind. Matters not, the cause. It goes along its way just the same. Sometimes it passes. Gone just as quick as arrived and not much afterthought, if any at all given towards where or why it went.
Rust grows quick on the fingers. Hasn’t been all that long… or has it been an eternity? I can scarcely recall the difference.