loose ends...

That's what life basically is. We're given these billions of threads, and our job is to weave an interesting tapestry for others to see. At lest, that's what we're supposed to do.

Too bad too often we spend time trying to gather together loose ends. Like that one job we didn't complete too well, or meet that person for one last time before going off to other ends of the world.

Sometimes, it's painful having to see our work in shreds. That is, too many loose ends, and you can't tell if it was better to cut off that one thread to clean it, or if it made more sense to weave it in it's place.

It looks that I'm leaving soon. If things go well. Melbourne is about 9000 km from here, if I'm not mistaken. I'll be in company of quite a few people from here, but there are some I'm not likely to see ever again. As is, I already am leaving ICPU, and some friends I had quite the honor to meet. So many of them are worth knowing are from all over the world, and stupid me has no capacity of fixing some sort of contact on a permanent basis with them. Guess I have to do that on Thursday.

One stage of my life is over. Almost all chance for the fun life I was planning on living is dying. Soon, it will be beyond resucitation. And somehow, I don't regret it.

I've never held myself a nostalgic person. And in all likelihood I'm not. But it's a bit hard to ignore all the possibilities. And the propositions. And all the things left undone, or things I could have fixed, had I taken the time.

What's done is done. What can be done, remains to be seen. Why do I recall everything that could have been when it doesn't really matter?

We have to be selfish for ourselves, because no one else is going to be selfish for us. The world is a place ripe for gang rape, in more ways than one. In all the lovey dovey ends we envision, it's liable that we will meet our demise in a less than pleasant manner.

It's a double edged sword, this is. A potato still grows in the ground, regardless of how we plant it. Likewise, all our hopes and memories and painful recalling only serves as that: things that once were. A regret is like a rotten potato. You may plant it, but it won't grow. But it may spoil the rest.

This has been an interesting year so far. A few more days remain to see if it will be a fucked up interesting one, or a relatively good interesting one. People, make me soar.

Meh.