Do you ever feel so ineluctably stuck in the matrix of calcifying, rapidly calcifying group dynamics options, like at 40, there are only so many selections on how to be and we have chosen all of them, for good or evil or neutral, in between among us, and we are going to burn right through those options, with no grace withheld on any side?

I feel like I’m stuck in a dark daymare in which I try to be unique to save my life from this outspread of choices-which-aren’t-choices, death in love, in the absence of ability to nourish anything that doesn’t come to ashes?

Are you ever just sad, that you possess the ability to unlock deep secret places in others, given the right neurotransmitters and time of day and half a bit of luck, but going underneath this ability runs a razored surface that filters so finally it destroys, so that every volunteered smidgen of somebody becomes a chiaroscro shadow in the court of masks?

I could go on forever. I don’t know where this emotional front rolled in from but it’s intense.

Is this the inevitable Harrier-jump-jet resting-in-repose position finally reached, parade-rested-into, by an INFJ coming home to their fellows?

I think so.