Satisfied.

That was anything but a statement.

I'm not certain of all too many things. But I'm too certain about nothing at all. If nothing is anything? If nothing is something, anyway?

I'd like to think myself capable. I'd like to think myself liberated. Liberated, I suppose, from tendency. Perhaps I'm asking too much, though I believe I've asked myself of too little. It's not, necessarily, that I'm opposed.

But I want control. I'd like to think myself capable. Capable of doing all but appealing to the stratum of the merely physical. Perhaps I am making a mistake. Perhaps I am asking too much of what is after all, merely, a human calling. Perhaps I'm not asking too much but, in all, demanding too much, stretching too far. If I so much as deprive myself of closeness and warmth, then I suppose I'll live with it, for now.

Is it too much a sacrifice to be certain?