Of all those things that I don’t do
and the places I am not a part of,
and the places I am not a part of,
Were they renderings or debacles?
Self made shackles?
Self made shackles?
To my mind,
They weren’t an oblivion of choice
Nor the first of their kind,
They had turned into a behavior of prejudice
Perhaps, a renunciation of a kind
Which asked for a unintelligible price
They weren’t an oblivion of choice
Nor the first of their kind,
They had turned into a behavior of prejudice
Perhaps, a renunciation of a kind
Which asked for a unintelligible price
Of all the things I miss the most
The tides of time which are long gone
Such, friends, are the opportunity costs.
Such, friends, are the opportunity costs.
PS: A certain kind of ascetic behaviour has been discussed here which laments renunciation and lack of desire.
