It’s ridiculous to feel envy over those I, objectively, wouldn’t want to emulate.  And yet, it comes again, that longing, an inexplicable lust for the banal, the apparent ease with which those for whom “meaning” is a pointless exercise, a question best considered (if at all) in old age when there is nothing more pressing than the arrival of pre-macerated dinner in the retirement home.

They always seem so content, energetically running to their cars in the morning, driving fast to work while thumbing hand-held screens, buying food on their lunch breaks, chatting in the spaces between looking busy, driving home, eating dinner, watching television, sleeping in nice beds.  Waiting for Friday…