“I am obscure and odd, very deeply odd.”
— Virginia Woolf
Am I obscure? Perhaps but then I tend towards the mistake that many have read what I’ve read tho I seen to have more of a taste for it than others. Puzzling but then I have enjoyed the company of books more often and deeper at times than the company of other people. Connections made with the writers or the beings that they write about . A character from a beloved novel invoked at 3 AM can be as powerful as any other spirit and there are many with whom I have had discourse. But then like dear Ms. Wolfe, I have no trouble admitting to my oddness.
The more I live life, the more puzzling I find certain aspects of it. Sometimes this is amazingly heartening and sometimes like the present I find it frustrating. I want to be able to fix the world or at least the parts of it that I love and yet I can see perspectives where there is no brokenness just being. Anything can be healed perhaps yet the how and why and consequences of doing so are not often available. Everything has ripples, ways in which they interact with other things that interact still more that any change to the system can change it beyond recognition. Yet still I impose my will even tho I may not know how to cause no harm. Still the I I know as me is new to this game, merely in it for a little over half a century. Maybe with time the wisdom and discernment of how to act and more importantly when will come. Until then I learn and attempt..why anything I set my mind to I suppose.
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