Sometimes I get chagrined because I’ve got what Matthew Arnold called, “the criticism of life.” That feeling of being trapped between the contingent and some longing for destiny, a middle state of poignancy where I’m not so much trying to escape life but feeling existential because I’m not engaging with it enough. Only inching towards its mystery as it keeps leaping away.
You know, it’s not easy to be alive, but it should be glorious.
Otherwise what have you? Property? Money? A flag? Ideology? Religion?