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If you have a penchant for disturbation, statistics will never let you down. They are the constant friend of the vacillator.
How often, I wonder, does one remark to oneself on the condition of others we meet or see as we trundle through our day and might we be more inclined to remark that, "there but for the will of God... " or some other soothing incantation to set us apart from the 'folly of being' that is the lot of those we espy.
Is it not now an unconscious, autonomic function of life as it is lived today to name in order to compartmentalise and then to close the drawer so as to have our lives appear serene again? Statistics perhaps cannot offer us the promise of bliss that ignorance bestows, but as heroin is to opium it comes pretty close.
Should we go the whole hog and hide ourselves away;penthouse, gated-community, cloud-cuckoo-land? Yes, there is real danger in getting close to that which nature imbues with the odour and taint of repulsion. There is a cliff-edge feel to any real perusal of poverty, one might fall, one might be drawn to o'er-tip and come-a-cropper. A cropper that provides harvest to none. Better to fly away, soar-off, but first...to flap.