Personal Log
Some people,
no matter what you give them,
still want the moon.
The bread,
the salt,
white meat and dark,
still hungry.
The marriage bed
and the cradle,
still empty arms.
You give them land,
their own earth under their feet,
still they take to the roads.
And water: dig them the deepest well,
still it's not deep enough
to drink the moon from.
If I did not have so much to concern me, it would be cause for concern to have drawn so near being content. Once again no effort is required to avoid that failing. Work remains: work always remains: work breeds faster than it can be killed. If there weren't such history of unreliability in the family line, I might consider spawning a few assistants myself.
The disinclination to die seems as strong as other traits in the blood. I am not surprised he still lives. I was surprised, when I heard this was so, to discover I had never considered any other possibility. It would be childish narcissism to believe my family immortal. Yet this near proof that there is always an exit or salvation gives me reason to wonder. No speculation so loosely founded can be trusted: this does not keep me from wondering.
I wonder what Eric would have done in all of this. I wonder if my cousin's work would bother me less if he were here.
Wondering is of no use when work remains. Work always remains.