Romanticising danger

is an extremely effective way of ignoring potential disaster.
And so the stars align once more.

The problem is there’s not really much danger to be had. Should things proceed the way my devious contriving creativity desires, there’s potential for much disaster indeed, and I welcome that risk. Volatility is an amazing state; empowering, frightening, humbling while it inspires recklessness.
Nevertheless of-course if nothing happens then nothing happens, and we all go home with a tie. Terribly dull.
Such banalities must be endured though. It’s not often that I would say that I get bored, as I enjoy indulging in down-time spent doing nothing but thinking. Boredom is more measured in moments, when you can see the machinery, the fuse, primer and explosive, and in all fairness, you await the spark from your unwitting co-contributors. It’s all there waiting, and then nothing happens.

You get used to it, leaving wonderfully destructive and beautiful things behind. One can’t wait forever, indeed, one can hardly wait at all for such things. I’m a fan of patience among other such Zen bullshit things, but some things simply must ignite immediately or be forgotten.

I remember the example of a burning house, or perhaps a house filled with difficulties made manifest in some over-romanticised incarnation of ‘bad guys’ who wish bodily harm on any intruder. Actually, I’m not quite sure I ever defined what was in the house, or indeed if it was a house at all, with some symbolic door. Nevertheless the idiom was born; throw your whole bodyweight against it until it breaks.

As Dave Matthews says, crash into me.
Indeed.
In all the wrong ways.