Long ago, possibly as far back as fifty-nine years, we started imagining the characteristics of the people we would have become by now and the places where we would now find ourselves. There was expectation and desire behind our dreams and projections, but whatever it was or might have been, we ended up as something else and someplace other than we'd hoped and imagined.
Is it impossible to imagine we are artists whose highest creation is ourselves? Wisdom of libraries and works in museums might be nothing compared with the magnificent accomplishment of self creation, which seems a wishful observation but in fact might even be factual, the difference between fact and observation being a problem for imaginary Doctors of Philosophy, who chose extended neotony over the terror of useful employment.
We can barely manage to crawl around the course once again before arriving, exhausted and bewildered, at the festive occasion where we allow ourselves to feel lucky that life is good and worth living, even if unobserved due to the familiar obligation and the irresistible regulation of breakfast, lunch and doing the laundry.
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