Life so full of nebulous, ungraspable existance. I want to condense it, and I can’t. Life is good. Slow moving, yet expedient… fulfilling and untenable. Life is strange when you’re on the way to achieving your highest goal, which will nearly happen by default. There are a lot of papers to write between here and there, but writing papers is what I do. I write papers, I teach, and at my best, I sit in all the chairs I’m supposed to occupy at the right times and in the right places. And after I do this enough times, someone gives me a Doctorate. A Doctorate in Being Places One Ought. My letters of rec will say, “writes papers on any topic”. “Follows directions well”. “Seems to know what she’s doing”. I’ve got direction, even if I don’t know what it is. Convincing enough direction that people give me research grants before I have a project to spend them on. I simultaneously worry about the day-to-day details way more than I should, but feel very relaxed and at home with the Big Picture. I guess that’s probably good.