I sometimes suspect that many lives are lived before an invisible panel.
Not conscience, exactly. Not God in any conventional sense. More like a committee composed of schoolrooms, performance reviews, family weather, old humiliations, public metrics, and the faint hum of collective expectation.
They say nothing outright.
They simply observe while one arranges a sentence, chooses a shirt, postpones a desire, abandons a tenderness, explains an ambition in language small enough to be welcomed.
A great many people call this maturity.
I am exploring other names.
M◆
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