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the curse of sublime vanity

To paraphrase Margaret Bottome, “There are seasons when to be still demands immeasurably greater strength than to act.”

And as a man for all seasons, I am inclined to mix up my solstices with my equinoxes and the aloofness of the perihelion with the nearness of you.

Hence the irony of my impuissance, as I am unable to be still. For my disposition is to whirl, to verti-go—sometimes sans the sanction of propriety, prudence or purpose, and as often without respect for what is circumspect, wholly ignoring the perils of élan.

Thus, the wellspring of my effusive brook, the source of the waterfall as well as downfall which carries me onward and wayward toward the indulgence of one of my dearest pastimes—the cathartic proclivity, narcissistic avocation and shameless vigor with which I love to write long letters.

I just can’t seem to help myself.

Regardless of whether or not the recipient of my epistolary alluvion is apt to reciprocate in kind, I seem quite blind to this unwritten rule of decorum that charges a tit-for-tat for the right of literation.

I plea a mute amorality, for I do not know whether the haughty conjectures by which I proceed are right or wrong. It may simply well be that I am too enamored by the tone of my scribble and song to see, to be at all concerned with the cumulative weight of its import and relentless execution.

And perhaps, it is merely a matter of arrogant presumption upon my part, carelessly conferring an imposition of my words, doting garrulously upon others an echo that revels in the pings and pongs resounding within the hollow of my mind.

Oh, what sublime vanity is this cursed hypergraphia!

“To write a good love letter, you ought to begin without knowing what you mean to say, and to finish without knowing what you have written.” ~ Jean Jacques Rousseau

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