It’s never too late.

That’s not entirely true. Sometimes, it is too late. That’s why now is generally better. I’m almost never pleased post-procrastination.

I’m regretful of late. I want more from my life and my reality. I suspect I’m not alone.

I feel old and spent and used and tired. Some of it’s nature – I tend to the neurotically depressed and miserable – but some I think is also a consequence of the weird reality we’re currently inhabiting thanks to COVID: a reality that seems suddenly about to violent flux.

Flux is stressful, but I’m not averse to a brave new world, albeit not one built on Aldous Huxley lines.

Or perhaps (r)evolution is just wishful thinking.

By Em

I like writing. Words help me unpack my thoughts so things can start to make sense. Once I have both myself and the universe figured out, I plan to take up macrame. "Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing, and learn as you go." E. L. Doctorow


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