fumility [fyoo-mil-i-tee]: n 1: the quality or condition of being fumble
Every time I sit to write the first words that pop into my head are, "What is in your hands?" I never know how to answer this. There's nothing in my hands. Every day I dismiss the question, and every morning it's back. In the voices of people around me, peripheral voices that I cannot make out clearly, I hear mumblings of the answer. "What did she just say?" I wonder. I get this funny feeling that everyone is saying the same thing to me, but never directly, and only when I'm not listening.
I am a happy person, and as a happy person, I'm often perplexed by the gnawing ache of some random longing, the cavernous expanse of empty desire, desire for nothing specific, for something. It doesn't take a genius to proclaim the superiority of an examined human life when compared, for example, with the existence of a plastic bag caught in the wind, dancing upward and away. The reality is that you are just too heavy and too dense to ride that wind. It's not an indictment, just another bit of evidence against you. Blame the wind, if you must. If only it were stronger.
Have you noticed that, although they claim, on the one hand, that our larger brain capacity brought us here, they also claim, on the other hand, that we use only a very small percentage of our brain matter. Does it make you wonder what they're not telling us? Or maybe they're trying to tell us. Maybe they tell us all the time, but never directly, and only when we're not listening.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
