Absolutely Miles Away …too many clouds, too little time…

decisions, decisions

why must I reach an answer in quick-quick doublespeed time?

I read uncertainties. I think uncertainties. I write uncertainties muddled with thoughts, encased in layers of shellac, daubed with glue made from the boiled bones of strengthly animals, to give the exterior some sort of repose and stamina, to which it is nigh-on impossible to break through.

In the pursuit of detailed studies of uncertainty and the wishes to reach a conclusion, one should take great care. There may be a cat in that laquered box, willing to scratch eyes out in exchange for a proportionate amount of tunafish relating to its time of imprisonment. Or there may be eternal rest and the end to the incessant droning-of-background-noise. One state or the other. Nowhere in between.

But I like my doors half open. I like my ideas half baked. I like to entertain the thought of a maybe or a possibly, to the extent of writing it words of admiration and declaring an all encompassing love for all it is, and then hiding them somewhere which cannot be found. And if I ever meet those thoughts face to face, I would be ice from head to toe, yet at my core, a cauldron of bubbling iron. A combination of such stupidity and awkwardness, the useless melted puddle betwixt the two.

You do not know all this, but surely you may like see the evidence placed before you.

When taking examinations, I would not wish to ever infer the result.

When forced to make a decision, I will choose what has been suggested by the group as the greater good.

If out with friends, I stay longer than my welcome as I do not ask “should I stay, or leave?”.

I ask my acquaintances to vote in telephone based polls, to determine if I should be one or t’other.

I cannot determine the answer myself, as both responses have equal footing. There is a homely range of greys between the blacks and whites, which encompass the truths, the untruths, the saints, the sinners, the forgivers and the repenters. My time is spent here, thinking about thinking about things, waiving chances away, pontificating on insignificant ramifications.

This is who I am.
This is what I’ll do.
And I can’t ever change.
Not even for you.

Wow. It’s a good cathartic message. However, I should probably post a disclaimier before mine. Ha-ha.

I have been pondering this post since it was published, unable to quite bring myself to comment, as much as I agreed with its sentiments and thought it was wonderfully written.

Then it suddenly struck me.

There are two words that sit rather uneasy with me in this post. Just two. And they occur at the start of the last line: “Not even”.

No, it should be “Especially not”.

Because to even considering changing for someone, even in the slightest way, even by the smallest acute degree … no.

Thank you for your messages.

Andophiroxia - no need for a disclaimer, i’m just….pernickity.

Mr Witness, Sir: Being of a highly imperfect way, I agree they are highly imperfect, but as a highly imperfect person, imperfections are always made.