Context is bunk

There’s too much context in the world for my liking. I look at a simple thing, some kind of basic emotion, say, and the next minute I’m flooded with context. It’s like goo slowing me down. There’s a pinpoint of certainty, which then shifts, subtly, reminding me of the parallel universes to be taken into account. Mots of light, suspended in certainty, suddenly explode into intricate trajectories through the dimensions of time and space creating a whole, that floods with chaos, until what seemed obvious becomes a vast absurdity. It should make me laugh, but I’m scared that if I lose myself in it, it’ll make paying the gas bill and trimming my nose hair seem insignificant. And someone’s got to keep up appearances