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Bursting Bubble

These lines by Rilke exactly describe how the endless workday cycle feels:

If one day one grasps that their busyness is pathetic, their occupations frozen and disconnected from life, why then not continue to see like a child, see it as strange, see it out of the depth of one’s own world, the vastness of one’s own solitude, which is, in itself, work and status and vocation?

The busyness of calls and running from one goal to the next that are not connected to the purpose of life to the point that you don't even get a chance to contemplate what that purpose might be. These were the thoughts on my mind when we went swimming recently and saw this ménage a trois in the far corner of the pool. The woman was likely in her 30s basking in the glow of attention of two men one much older and the other younger than her. 

Their universe was complete and self-contained, a temporal bubble of perfection perhaps. All three of them looked radiant. The other folks at the pool looked two dimensional and pale compared to them. Then just as suddenly as they had appeared, they parted ways. The bubble had burst and the colors had bled into the water, diluted and died. I had to wonder if these folks had grasped that their busyness is pathetic and had found a way to combine their vastness of their individual solitudes.

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