Indeed. Perhaps I owe it to those whom I love to make that caterpillar-to-butterfly metamorphosis into a writer and then archive their lives and splendor. (Lately I've been wondering a lot, and rather dumbfoundedly, what it is I shall do with this life. Not that I at present do nothing, but it seems in my constitution to be disoriented. Even when in a state of industrious frenzy, it feels that I am waiting; even when tredding tenaciously down one path, I've got this maddening hope that it will fork off, eventually, in a better direction--with nicer scenery, and a less menacing horizon, and ruts not so deep that I fall into them. Dickens would advise against such 'great expectations,' though I might contest that they are incurable.)
Comments 3
Reply
(Lately I've been wondering a lot, and rather dumbfoundedly, what it is I shall do with this life. Not that I at present do nothing, but it seems in my constitution to be disoriented. Even when in a state of industrious frenzy, it feels that I am waiting; even when tredding tenaciously down one path, I've got this maddening hope that it will fork off, eventually, in a better direction--with nicer scenery, and a less menacing horizon, and ruts not so deep that I fall into them. Dickens would advise against such 'great expectations,' though I might contest that they are incurable.)
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment