Bridging night to day – silent night fades, interrupted by coffee maker gurgles, keystrokes and music (usually this Debussy collection).
Thoughts roll in fog-like , roll out like waste heaps.
Searching for obscure gems within piles of metaphoric horse dung. That’s what weekend mornings are for. Enjoying, again, what yesterday was while groping through darkness searching for tomorrow’s meaning. No clue where tomorrow points, what new experience tomorrow holds. We can look back, but can’t go back. What’s past, passed. What’s broken can rarely be fixed without asking – why fix them when I can make or buy or trade for new ones?
Lives ponder, what’s next?
Fairness feels better when we win, not so much when we don’t.
Who decides whether we’ve won or lost is so often someone else’s choice?
What matters is how we feel about ourselves; whether we gave our best effort, or not, best work or not, superior performance to past chapters.
It’s April, no need to be fooled – yet essential to enjoy foolishness …