a matter of contingency?

I never expect myself to outgrow the sensations, and so the question still leaves me unsettled. It was asked again today, during my innocuous visit to the little corner bookshop. It was meant, of course, as a friendly gesture. 'Where are you from?'
And I would have loved, very much, to lie and go with the short, unproblematic answer : oh, just around the corner.
But I couldn't lie. I couldn't. Although I expect it to be easy whenever I'm caught in a situation where I have to talk about things I find difficult to touch on. Lying, I suppose then, is a matter of expertise. And there are different degrees too. Mind you, I'm quite adept in a number of aspects.

I do think that births are a matter of contingency. Place, time, and the whole protracted chains of them. Whenever questioned about it though, there still sparks a speck of irritation. It feels like someone peeking through my drawn curtain. And it's drawn for a reason. I'm reassured every once in a while when I meet people who know when to lay back and let down their inquisitive antennas. I think people have grounds to speak up and conceal, and that's something one should respect.

Personally, I'd rather divulge the brand of my flip-flops, the butter I use, and how many eggs I eat on average per-annum. But nobody is yet to question me on those.

So lay to rest all these talks on eggs and seeds and contingencies.

Good night.