Just another mountain {range}

This is the time of year, the time of day when everything should be perfect. When the noises inside the house have three hours silenced, and from the open window comes nothing but perfectly tempered air and the sounds of the creatures with Circadian rhythms as backwards as my own, the world should be an enveloping blanket in which I can get cozy and complacent.

But too many questions lately remain unanswered, not the least of which is what the point of all this is, if there even is one. And perhaps hearing authoritatively that question answered, “None”: I think sometimes that that would be enough. Not enough — sufficient, then, to allow myself room to just enjoy what there is while it is.

I’m tired of being inquisitive. I want to spend my days ignorant and unaware, blindly happy to make it one day to another.

Sadly, I see too well: you can stop looking for answers all you want, but the questions still arise, and burn, and poke and peel at the edges.

(and I wonder where my migraines come from)

The Time Traveler's Wife

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