Failsafe

Eight letters is what it has come to. Failsafe. A lifetime of seeking a saferoom, a fall back with no further terrors. Ejected from the womb onto a live oxygen atmosphere alive with dangers, we seek our familiar warm cocoons with 24x7 food, warmth and protection. We don't even have to worry about shitting or pissing. And get this, sans any effort. The only thing you don't get to do is fuck. But you are so secure and comfortable, momentary spikes of bliss don't count. The price we pay for leaving the womb and living the way we do is to feel scared and uncomfortable with being alive. Being outside.

Setting sophistry aside, what all this means is that we are fundamentally scared people. Scared of not being warm, scared of not knowing when the next meal is going to come, scared of being cast aside by people we actually like, scared of losing what we have, scared of not getting what we want.

So it goes, when we work, play or take decisions.Is there a better way? It’s when we don't want, that we get, when we execute effortlessly. The price of admission is complete detachment from what we want to see. Weird, isn't it?