The Brood of Life

My sister has a friend (I’ll call him “Tom”) who likes to brood. Tom not only digs brooding, but seems to live to do so. He broods, hand on chin and chin on hand, peanut butter in his chocolate and chocolate in his peanut butter, about The Meaning Of Life. He spends so much time wondering and worrying what it’s all about, Alfie, that he doesn’t actually live. He is paralyzed with fear over having fun, because, what if, he posits, life is not about enjoyment? Everything, to Tom, must have a rhyme and a reason and A Purpose. To everything, turn turn turn, whatever. Trouble is, he frets so much about turning that he can’t even turn his head to see what’s in front of him, which is his Life, which is begging for him to live it, and which he refuses to participate in because he’s too taken in by wondering how to live it.
It’s a wonder that my sister, who has about as much patience for bullshit as I do, hasn’t told him to get his chin out of his hand before she rams her foot up his ass.
If musing be the brood of life … just get on with it.