'oh but profundities are in fact niceties!' flaubert

the doors to the world are closing. the light which glimmers enticing adventures and youthful discovery is fading, has seemingly become nothing but a memory of those who, like the fly, saw the hand moving to swat them and their dream out of existence and so left, discovered the better life and stayed, content and peaceful. or better still, who went crazy and cut off their ears, who married a european and lived in spain, or who saw what europeaness was and mocked it.

to be but one of those other people who are content with their lot, who can live the sedentary life, fixed to the rock from which they burst and not see the desert that surrounds its mother, haplessly lost in the moving sands of time in memorial. perhaps they are focused on those around them and the pain they live, feeling the triviality of their own grief, the rock they push only for it to crush them, the obsession which fills them with sore feet; if only they were sore from adventure beyond the doors and not fate, swinging back on them crushing their heels, crushing their will.