Being a practical person I search for solutions. In absence of which an answer may suffice.
Here is a question. I’ll paint you the scenario: I just picked a book (off my well tended and regularly and lovingly dusted bookshelves) and opened it. So far so great. Like meeting an old friend. You pick up where you left off; revisiting the past.
And then? AND THEN? Then, and no sooner had I opened page 172, one of those tiny little critters shoots out of it, hurtling along, no doubt not knowing what to do with exposure to daylight. Let’s leave aside that I never knowingly disturb anyone, I’d not even dream to raise the dead; however, and this is the question: What is the actual purpose of “beings” like that? What do they add to the world – ours and theirs? On the bright side they don’t bore holes into your books, they don’t sting, they don’t make any noise, they don’t defecate (as far as I can tell); they just are. What for?
To up the ante of my “Spot Check” try this one for size:
What constitutes friendship?
Is it in your nature to be a friend?
Is it in your nature to attract friends?
Do you think yourself a good friend? And if so, to whom? And why?
How much honesty by a friend can you bear? How much of YOUR honesty do YOU expect a friend to bear? Should there be a fountain of honesty? Or should we be able, with no ill effect on the friendship, know when to turn off the tap of our well meaning, and let the water sicker into the sand?
Are you your own friend? What would it take to sever all contact with you, the friend you are to yourself?
I do battle with myself. Daily.
It’s entertaining. And awful.
What to say, why to say, how to say, when to say, where to say – it. The only thing certain is the WHO says it – that’s me.
What to say? That’s easy. I have plenty to say. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it needs to be said. How? Now we are running into serious difficulty. When? Not now. Where? Well …
So should I die of bowel cancer you only have yourselves to blame.