I read a couple lines of what you just sent while getting my feet massaged sipping coffee, and opened my account immediately assuming your block of text was about me again.
It is about me if I feel it is about me anyway, at least to a certain extent it is. But that's not really the point in these kinds of matters. The moment after my ego inspired morning pondering, I concluded that it is much better to be in the business of imbibing mysteries, each one more obscure or esoteric or magical than its predecessor, than to be an acclaimed fisher of mysteries, one of global renown, whose sense of pride and self-worth is replenished by the seas and showers of rapturous acclaim and amazement caused by the paucity of intrigue left behind as tools of surgical semantics perform autopsies yielding answers that are sterile - that can bear no questions of their own.
I'd rather be in the game of making audiences gasp in petrified awe by swallowing poisons unknown like soft drinks, than sustain my physical existence taxonomising magic. Continuing to remain always a starter, and never a finisher. Never a source of conclusions without at least one road branching off ahead. Never the final word. Never the authority which imbibes its own deceit. Which is a poison it hopes will cause its pores to sweat mystique, but only lead to the corroding of the heart's spirit.
Right, I wasn't supposed to write this much! I'll go for a walk to inhale some nice forest air now and read the rest of what your wrote there.
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