Sometimes I do not have time to do the most simple things, or so it do seem. This is of course falsehood. My life is painless, unentangled, with quite sufficient moments to fulfill all responsibilities with many multiple hours to spare.
Pretending to be so occupied is fallacious, a most terrible and unnecessary falsehood, a lie that does no more than cover up mine own laziness, ineptitude, beneath a blanket of easily perceived prevarication. We all are inclined to live in a web of desperate falsification, that tears irreparably under the slightest harrying.
I revel in my mundanity. but will happily admit ‘twas not always so. The need for a more meaningful life goads unmercilessly, demanding elaborate justifications for the least spectacular of happenstances. In youth particularly banality is anathema, in agedness it is alternatively quite sublime, the hard-won salvation from an otherwise helter-skelter existence, a state best avoided if peaceability and satisfaction are of any great import at all.