Waiting

Its easy not to write when waiting for inspiration. It's a very passive attendance, attuned for that moment when words run smooth. But my books of late are failing me and their words do little to generate fresh thought. I have no new secrets and I'd rather not report on the day to day- I'm left rather uninspired. I'm in a complacent limbo, waiting for life to begin. This is scheduled for 9:34 AM on Tuesday the 20th of January, my flight to a life that I've selectively chosen to fill with fine food, the revelry of youth, and the romance of another language. I wish I could encapsulate without seeming to be an indulgent epicurean how much I need carelessness and fun. Right now too much thought is wasted on life theory and not enough life living. I hope by the time I'm 30 or 80, I can look back at my self now and smile and shake my head. I hope I can say, "Me oh my, how I so needlessly fretted." I'd prefer current thoughts to be nothing but pointless flounderings and the basis of purpose to be far removed from confusion and uncertainty.

We have such a breadth of allowance for the life of each individual. To one is prescribed luck and happiness and to another only grief. It was long ago said that life is not fair, but I'm mystified more that we aren't more put off by both extremes. Within this range human life is so much harder to define and thus difficult for for the young such as myself to direct an end. I feel like we're told to feel guilt whenever prosperity affords happiness and simultaneously taught pious satisfaction as the remedy for our complaints. Perhaps our feelings might be secondary to what we do with our lives, but once again one needs a value to which one directs their end.