And often, there is no holding back it demands to be dropped. But the urge to assemble and bestow them on to the descendants who inherit the process could be an impending sword suspended over our scruples. If we attempt to gather them, sort them, and pack them to be bequeathed and passed on to posterity is akin to getting our dreams recorded onto a reproducible device impractical, impossible. The sensation is often pleasing, at times poignant but mostly ambiguous and even daunting to an extent. Many years of life along with all its trimmings, meshed like a canopy of fluffy clouds, embrace us and engulf our minds with vague judgments and no clear beginning or end. It stays obscure as if seen through a hazy rearview mirror distant, indistinct, doubtful, and almost impersonal. ![]() ![]() ![]() Our past, the unaccompanied baggage appended to our conscience, often comes prowling on us uninvited and unanticipated.
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