I like what you wrote, only partly because it echoes something from the past . . . .
YOU: “Wherever we are heading, we are getting there fast. But surely death is that unnamed destination, and I must drive my heels hard into the earth and arrest the speeding pace. We are allowed only one circumnavigation, and life ends, as it began, in nothingness.“
THAT OTHER GUY: "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."
Man, have I been there. Writing (and thinking, and pondering thinking) about writing. Glad you made it out alive!
I did not know you had this obsession about writing about writing. So funny.
Great post, Peter! 🙌
I like what you wrote, only partly because it echoes something from the past . . . .
YOU: “Wherever we are heading, we are getting there fast. But surely death is that unnamed destination, and I must drive my heels hard into the earth and arrest the speeding pace. We are allowed only one circumnavigation, and life ends, as it began, in nothingness.“
THAT OTHER GUY: "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."
I love your illustrations. The opening paragraph is marvelous!!!
I see you overcame the apprehension and dove in. Well done!