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 start to make sense. I suppose that once I figure out life, the universe, and everything (my thanks to Douglas Adams), I'll have nothing left to say. "Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing, and learn as you go." E. L. Doctorow


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