Doing Nothing At All

nyc skyline

…and from what I know and what I’ve seen so far, much of the time it’s just fumble. Some, an argument went, would not know the difference between a pine cone and a grenade. Such folk might roll them, either one, back and forth against their knee. Others just fail to see the difference between the blossom and the bole. And so it seemed to him that getting too stuck to the belief of a cause often leads to some kind of ruin. It is akin to the way small children will destroy a busy anthill, except that children are forgiven their childish attachments to careless play. They leave behind a sandy heap their mother sweeps away. Which is strange, because it means that to be that man standing at the bar, nobody can tell him, and nobody knows, whether standing there, coming or departing, he is somehow better off. He prevaricates so. And to do that, doing almost nothing, nothing at all, is the way to be, the way to go. Just fumble. Well, Christ! I would not be Schrödinger’s Cat for a million bucks, living and dying shut up with a radioactive isotope, all my days (or all my nights). But neither would I be the one to pull the bomb’s pin, nor the one to have all that sticky sap now stuck to his sappy palms the rest of the afternoon. Can any more thinking make the dilemma of poor chatty Prince Hamlet more comprehensible, if not more complete, who cannot find a clearer way to free himself from what he’s been and all he sees, than a kind of clumsy, pointless death…

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