There are times when the pieces fit securely into place and all seems to flow in a great, expanding, steadfast and sturdy row. This, my friends and my dear self, is not one of those times.
I can hardly type 3 words without going back and editing. Misspellings abound. My writing seems jerky, careless and rushed.
There is a metaphor there.
I go out to get some needed fresh air and quite literally smack into life in all its awkward weirdness. The seconds tick and all I want is silence to coalesce the seeping, dripping globs into meaningful forms. Yet I am trapped into a silly cycle going nowhere fast. I feel the pull of my reaching mind against the dictates of expectations and niceties which supposedly grease the cosmic wheels.
Life seems scattered.
The links in my day all ajumble with knots and tangles collapsing in on themselves. Excited energy feels more like tension. The twisted snarls are taught and vibrating.
Collapse seems imminent. But there is no time for that indulgence.
