I start five different posts within a minute, each paced into a breakneck speed that even I can't keep up. With.
Strange, that. Not being able to keep up with yourself./
Excruciating.
Honesty requires a bit of slowing down, it seems.
People drive me crazy. Their ideas. Their confessions. Why can't they keep it all to themselves? Why can't I? Why must I wrangle out these confessions? Why must I condition my sustenance on tortured production?
Why not slicken the walls with lubricant and go running around full speed?
At the end of my life, if I have lived a life according to standards, what will it mean? When I am five days from death? When all of the potential that could have been is now actualized and splayed out into the finite and knowable past? What sustenance will I receive, when I know that? If I have created favorable impressions of myself in twenty people's minds. If I have convinced myself? Will it be worth it?
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