I do not like agendas or more specifically I do not like your agenda, my own agenda I simply do not trust. It is too fleeting, changeable, without definite direction or goal. Agendas generally are not something I have found particularly useful even when they have a definite purpose, that is to say when they are suggested points for discussion. My opinions tend to be to flighty, two changeable, varying according to my mood, to the weather, to the time of day, to the last meal I enjoyed, or equally did not. If my known direction is so easily deflected why on earth would I follow yours’s, your brother’s, your sister’s, mother’s, father’s, uncle’s, or aunt’s, or even less likely a congregation or cabal of some or possibly worse of them all.
I do not go out of my way to be difficult, but I do practice that activity on a regular basis, simply because it ensures me the ability to grasp a degree of self-control, of self-interest, of independence. I understand you wishing me to be a member of your island chain, of your archipelago as were, unfortunately I am not so inclined. I am a skerry alone, a solitary piece of rock, having earned, or at least claimed the right to be isolated, unconnected, distant, unsociable.
Agendas also suggest schedules, definite plans with timetables, to do lists, ladders rising to heavenly plains, or descending to hellish pits. Such pluralities tend to leave me cold, I have a heathy distrust of well laid plans, whether by Homo sapiens of Mus musculus. The butterfly effect has always proved my most reliable sign post, probably as good a reason behind my consistent state of surprise at each and every twist and turn of fates quite circuitous progress.
Serendipity is not necessarily the most easily digested of pudding, demanding unscrupulously large portions of sugar to sweeten its oft tart filling. Blind tasting is not for those of a nervous disposition or weak stomach, but in hindsight the most visually unappealing dishes prove both filling and sumptuous, qualities sure to satisfy both spirit and physique. Reminiscent of the durian fruit, fortuity demands disconnect, one sense never being permitted to intercede in the craving of another.