I come by my anger innocently enough.
But I don’t want to talk about anger. I
do not want to discuss love, either. I’d
rather experience it, and in experiencing
it, live it.
But what if I feel playful? What if I feel
playful? The fact that I find myself at
this moment rather dismissive of that
thought should lead most of us to
conclude that I do not feel playful.
What then? What then? Is this my life
story in three short spasms? While I
pause to consider that question, its re
dundancy, I’ll revel in how expansive it grows,
as if an explosion were the inevitable conclusion.
