I'm always looking for moments while forgetting I'm in one. Cause' it might not have that Feeling I'm looking for. It might be stressful, or boring, or directionless. It might have no aim.
These moments I run away from. Even writing this is an escape. I imagine this is a different kind of life than our ancestors lived, whose work may not have been motivated by money, or fame, or wanting to feel important. But by want, and necessity, and acceptance of their place as humans. And by love? A boring kind; passionless and evenly spread out.