18 hours a day are no more enough
You wish you had twenty eight.
Two hands seem like a limitation.
Four consecutive years of growth
And comfort beyond your 22-year old dreams
At 40 is a mere stepping stone
To bigger things
Of the same?
That could take care of 15 of you and never needs to?
Or of time?
And of sane lives and happy faces around you.
That you might have not caused, but did not disrupt either?
Of little important things
That make your live your debt to the future a little
Not just in preparation of securing it against unknown yet terrible fears?
Of unimportant meetings
Of unproductive investments into unfocused relationships with random people
That in the end count not because they work out for you
But because they happened.
Maybe you have a meaning, or a purpose
Maybe you don’t
But just the chasing of
The next adjective, noun that starts to own you and the meaning
Because it appreared on the horizon
And took complete control of you
Is that it?