some say we're creatures of habit. some say we're creatures of comfort. others say we're just idiots.
life is a crawl. there are no snails here; just a race of infants who revert back to habits. we're a slow moving race, the human one. we colour in the lines, we don't jump the fence, we certainly don't cross the pond. we stick to that sweet familiar taste of knowledge, and we're curious only so far as our comforts allow us to be. we don't venture any more than the next guy. (unless, of course, you find yourself next to Albert
and although this allows us to have a pretentious paw of control over our livelihoods and our successes, it also makes us prone to mistakes. not just any mistakes, no, but the same ones we've made before. the repetition of stupidity. the crawl back to the known. we hold our chin high, held up with our esteemed hope that things will go differently this time. we cross our arms, unwilling to openly embrace the fact that nothing has changed on this second, third, fourth time around. and most of all, we close our eyes to any kind of metaphorical red flags, lightbulbs, things of that sort. we ignore the taps on the shoulders, and there we are again: in the pitfall of our own idiocy. back in the same place we promised ourselves never to be again. we have the shovel in our own hands, and somehow still wonder how we got back in that same hole.
some call it a circle, others label it a cycle.
I just say it's a grave. and we're digging ourselves in.