We keep our hands above the water, we know that, someday, we will fly away

Therefore it could be said that it has been decided. But it can’t be acted upon. I don’t really want to code anymore. It isn’t that I wish to stop completely, as there isn’t anything else I can do, not that I can even do that. It might just be my age, isn’t it always that? But now, in the position I am in, I can’t give it all up to follow some dream. Firstly as I can’t afford it, secondly, what dream is there to chase? All I want is for my children to make it through school, and out into the world in one well-adjusted piece. That is my raison d’etre. The only meaning of life is more life. But where does that leave me? Crying for help on some abandoned outpost on the interweb. Or not even that, considering I have decimated (or more than by-ten) my readership, one that I built up over, what, five or more years? Actually, those readers I would care about are still here. A merry little band we are, are we not? Not a mid-life crisis, more a been-here-for-so-long crisis. But what to do, he muses again. There is no greener grass, is there? Most of life, and the pursuits people persue, seem so, well, crass to me. But then, I tend not to see things exactly, or indeed in any way, the same as everyone else. Probably no one does. Personal, and familial, happiness are paramount. I am thinking, pondering, and trying to come to some conclusion. But it can’t jepoardise my current comfortable-ness. There are no schemes, no scams, just the unending gloom at the cradle-to-grave-controlocrats. And the non-frivolous silence. And the angst I should have grown out of long, long ago. You know, for this sort of thing, I need a live journal account. Oh, hang on…

Go go! Ninja dinosaur!