Makes you wonder if there’s still a point in all that you do, been doing and will be doing, because would you rather be in enclosed spaces where the possibility of being trapped in the embrace of electronics and dead cells and organisms and events that resemble death, the everyday ones most especially, or be elsewhere and do what the dying, days-are-numbered ill people are doing with relish because they’re of the live your life as if it were the last belief and don’t you think they’re in that rare state of being in the more advantageous position of being able to live their life exactly as they want because they’re highly aware of their position on earth unless they’re bedridden? Between the bed and the oppressive lights and functionality of unavoidable electronics of everyday life/death, bed often provides much, much better cushion but that’s just one person’s lazy opinion and obviously some mornings can not be cured by even the best tasting Colombian coffee.
Makes you want to make the sort of generic complaints about things you have no control over but which you will not make because it’s not proper and everywhere is a highly controlled environment where you may think no one’s watching but someone’s definitely watching. Someone’s watching because in the first place, you pimped your innocent spot on the virtual and actual earth. It’s a controlled environment where scientist observers make zero effort to be known as beings who are aware that you’re saying or doing things, or just scientists who refuse to acknowledge that some people, specimens to be upright about the awkward metaphor, chief of them the complaining types, are discontent but not entirely miserable because at least they still eat and in the end the acknowledgment refusers, the true and deliberate apathetics win but you still don’t wish to be like them even if they seem like big winners. It makes you want to strangle them, preempt the earthquake.
It is a potent driver of desire to say things that take temporary but huge space in the heart and brain but which never helps the progress of one those things that you have no control over called you know what. It is also a potent driver for resortation to unclear, best left to the imagination feelings that often turn out to be just desire to have things put on empty white spaces that do not even beg filling. But enough already with the potent driver, potent driver. What it really is is it drives you nuts.