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  • Sometimes I feel that I need to make some grand statement when I write. Or, at least, a statement of some kind.

    I don't like this inhibition. It feels as if I'm self-censoring (others might say self-editing).

    It feels like a wall. A mirrored wall that reflects only imperfections.

    I need to overcome this.

    Why can I not simply be?

    Even if simply being implies no more than existence.

    Good enough for the existentialists, this, a philosophy that seems less current today than it did when I was a student.

    When I was a student, I had time to think about such things. Was encouraged to do so.

    Now, aging, sunk into the cares of middle class materialism and expectation, just being is a dangerous way thinking. Too close to being lazy or unfocused. The great sins.

    Is it a wonder that so many of us, caught on the cusp of immortality crashing into mortality, flee, fly, twist or turn? Throwing family, love, work, place aside and striding with a mixture of pride and desperation into some other world, a world that all too often simply rearranges all that was thrown aside into another bed of feathers and straw, alternately cozy and prickly.

    Establishment exacts a toll. I can sit in a house on top of a pile of saved cash, carefully gathered for the coming of retirement, and wonder whether any of it was worth the cost.

    Sensibly, I can answer "yes" to that question. But only, and always only, if I take time out.

    Like today by the little waterfall in Deer Lake, with the air chilled to freezing and golden light gleaming on the horizon.

    There, none of this matters and all of this matters and there is no conflict at all between these simultaneously balanced strains of thought.
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