On Transigence

Enough. Life is entirely too short and precious to spend any more of it putting scale texture on imaginary bugs.

I am, for once, not being sardonic, sarcastic, or purposely obtuse. 11:40 PM. A Saturday night. Somewhere in the eighteenth hour of my ever lengthening quest for the perfect carapace, I officially had enough of the bizarre hyper-realist fit I'd nursed on and off for the last several years. At what point, I wonder, did I conflate 'goodness' with 'detail'? I'm not really certain. But, it's weird, kind of unhealthy, and not nearly as satisfying as it once was.

I'm going to be making a turn towards efficiency: the most psycho-symbolically accurate, purposeful use of each form. More planning, less muddled execution. That way, maybe I can get back to enjoying the things I enjoy, leave the house on occasion, and let nature handle the exoskeletons.