I am not as respectful of process as I'd like to be. I question things I don't know, don't understand. I brood. I ask, "Are we there yet?" incessantly. I fidget. I cry. I irritate myself. I irritate others. I can't stop speculating, wondering, ruminating, thinking.
And then, the process seems to end. And I'm not quite sure what to make of this, what to do with myself. Or where my central locus is, that place from which everything, for so long, appeared to stem.
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