tuckova

There was a time when I almost never discussed anything until I'd made up my mind how I felt about it, because I wanted my answers and my decisions to be my own, uninfluenced by others. I didn't ask questions because I felt like if I didn't answer them for myself then the answers didn't count. And now I'll ask anything, I'm shameless, my curiosity wins first. The problem is that I can't boil it down to one question, because for example I have a hundred questions for you, and you're just one person, and now you want me to ask one question. Ask what? Under the circumstances my first thought turns to human nature and then because I'm me I start with Who. Who are we supposed to be kind to: the people who earn it or the people who need it? What is the nature of that kindness; do we give people what they want or what we think they want, what they should want? Where are the scales that weigh our deeds, and are we weighed according to what we did or what we could have done; what could I have done for you that I did not do, what does that do to my scale in the end? When is the end? If I knew when I was dying, surely life would be much easier for a pointy-headed planner like me. Why, then, does the absence of that knowledge as well as the knowledge itself seem to bring so many people unhappiness; why can't we skip the question of when and live for the day as if it were the last even if it's not? Kiss me now before time runs out. How would I like to be kissed? Like it's the first time. Like you mean it. I'm actually a little troubled that I don't have a better question, a more meaningful one. If given wishes I would wish for more, but I don't know the same solution for questions. Why can't I have more? Maybe that is what I would ask. Except sometimes I know that the answer would be because I don't deserve it. What one question could I ask that would give me an answer that would satisfy me? Ah, there it is.