We constantly seem to be on the brink of something. The start of, the end of, even the middle is a standing ground for some sort of left or right turn. When ever are we going to be satisfied with our lot? Is the need for a better state of being ever going to abate? Even when we say that we are content with our lot, do we not secretly wish that someone somewhere would pick up the phone and dial our number? Do we ever let go of the remnants of yesterday that echo in the misty corridors of our mind, or do we let them hover behind the cobwebs, dormant, waiting to be unleashed at our most vulnerable moments.
Why do I sometimes write such sanctimonious tosh? J
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