Oh life, you're a funny bitch. A million little synchronicities follow me throughout my day, seeming to prove that I am on my beam, going wherever it is I am destined to go. The apparent gaping lack of direction or purpose which often keeps me at a state just under panic is, I guess, an illusion? Or somehow camouflaged training for whatever it IS to come? I honestly don't know, even after years of "study" and attempts to be open to answers. All I know is that either way I slice it, or whatever work I put into it or don't I'll find myself neatly synched up somewhere in my pursuit of escape and fiction, and I do take some comfort from that.
