The perfect excuse for bad blogging:
The more eloquently I can describe my life, the more distanced I am from the chaotic ambiguity that I love most about it.

But on a different note, here's the thing:
I've always thought that I love the ambiguity.
I'm discovering that I don't love it unconditionally, by any means.

Perhaps I'm not as immune to conditioning as I'd hoped. Isn't the whole point of the human enterprise to remove ambiguity? From the scale of the couple to the scale of the civilisation, 'success' means that we've locked things down and then systematically removed each and every question mark.
Put up a wall between the civilised and the Wild everything-else.
Definition. Understanding. Prediction. Control.
Engineered Perfection with low probability for disaster or despair.
Isn't that what we try to do, from the lone soul to the species?

And so it is that all of a sudden I find myself asking the Man: Seriously, what is going to become of us. Until I know for sure, I can't be Sure. And if I'm not sure, I can't be here.

To take what at first was the only limitless thing in my life, and then try to wrestle it to the ground with deadlines and contracts: Whose fault will it be when I can no longer fly? And will I mind when I wake up and realise what I've done?