Ready!

Okay, I'll admit it, I've impatient! Yet whenever I am reminded of this - as I routinely am - it provokes within me a moderate revolution.  I accept the endowment of allowing things to unfold. What threatens the largesse is the discovery that nothing is being done. The unearthing of the immobility is as regularly preceded by an assurance to do the exact opposite. Pshaw! Mendacious utterances! Regrettably this clinical reasoning is seemingly for my benefit only and represents a Pyrrhic Victory at best.  Apparently prosecution has more than one meaning!

As a result the collateral of my intensity is a stinging combination of discomfort and righteousness - and neither is free of poison. Naturally my habits are as changeable as those of others - which is to say, not at all!  Yet while I persist in the performance of my disagreeable behaviour (which more often than not is rewarded with the intended results) it requires further analysis to soften the impact of my disfavour. I have for example been lately drawn to the conclusion that for whatever reason I have a mistrust of reliance upon others.  Not that I attach anything nefarious to their conduct, but I certainly haven't a wholehearted reliability in their fulfillment of my particular needs. This may sound entirely digestible. Its more toxic contamination however is that it excuses what are understandably often the narrow ambitions of others while seriously limiting one's own objectives. True, the "public" cannot be expected either to anticipate or to appreciate the intricacies of what one wants. Nor I suppose should they be expected to do so.  Yet this very acquittal promotes what is stamped as priggish impatience on my part.

If as I say people are ignorant of the compelling nature of one's expectations, it therefore behooves one to make them aware. Otherwise one risks that specious retort, "Why didn't you say so!" which is usually nothing more than a disguise for inadequacy under the charade of charity. Who then to blame! In the spirit of community I acknowledge that - as my late dear mother was wont to say - things eventually "all work out".  Whether it is my intervention or merely the unfolding of the Universe in "the best of all possible worlds" I will not pretend to answer. Nor frankly do I give a damn.  What I do know for certain is that there is very little which will dilute my interminable anxiety; and that I have yet to be proven unworthy for prosecuting the conclusion. Now that's being bloody minded!