You pull your life back on the bowstring, let it fly, will it reach the target? No, not really. Each day it sails a little long or a little short. There always seems to be a force (the gods?) that pushes the (Zen) arrow from the center; like a gust of wind.

I’m tempted to give into the chaos of things; I’m trying to hard. I have too much ability, in a way, just enough to think that I can change my fate, write my way out of my fate — just enough to delude myself.

Across the subway car from me a man my age is playing a game on his phone that emits an annoying bleeping sound.

Everything is Kindergarten. There are no adults anymore. Everyone is a toddler bawling for games and attention.

Should I be angry? Sure. Should I imagine that I can change it? Hell no. One of the forces — profit motive — incentivizes the production to stupefying games; it does not incentives the production of philosophy and philosophers.

And why should it?