Responsible words

Quarantine, a subject raised all too rarely, provides the evidence of the ill we suffer and all too secretly wish to publicise as a matter of course in the diminished interstices of the mundane as the sole complaint of the essential human truth, to forward that dream that things would be otherwise were it not needed, but which in any case since it is leaves us choiceless in a paradoxical world of our own choosing.

 To simplify. 

If I dropped the tray of glasses CRASH and said n-o-t-h-i-n-g that would demonstrate - I believe - a greater self-awareness and perhaps make it less likely to happen in future; since perhaps the function of **** is to blame things on fate.  In this case self-censorship equals responsibility …  

The real thing to be understood however is what have I in quarantine that is itself symptomatic of the illness?  In other words, what don’t I wish to talk about but which I should?

Clearly, much of what it is is the past, the same for everybody.  Many of those nameless things that happened and that affect me still, but still secretly, still undivulged, even in this era of Freudian self-consciousness, let’s admit it.