A cruel but clever friend once invited me to think about how often the subject of my sentence is me, or more specifically "I". It was a friend who knew me well enough to sting me with that cutting little jibe and that jibe came in the midst of one of my anecdotes about my silly, meaningful accidental-adventures.

On the subject of those anecdotes: I recentley abandoned my life and responsibilities to fulfil a promise to a friend. So much of my experience is tied up with fulfilling promises, or so it seems to me. Not a complaint, in fact a point of pride in my life. That is a world of half-hearted attempts from people to fulfil the characters they promised me, and vicariously the selves they promised they would be.

ANYWAY I left. and in leaving i stumbled over the rock of an idea so enormous it promises to sink or crush me. The only thing I live for is the time with the people I love. With nothing else in my life to strive for I should be free. But somehow, this childish epiphany is pressing down on me. I've tried to make the people that this realisation relate to realise they are in fact my reasons for being but more particularly my reasons for being here. They mostly dismissed me as a niave romantic chump. But still I'm haunted. But for my selected family, the people I bear my dreary little soul to I am nothing but a charged particle in the battery of the vibrator of life.