I feel like I’m fighting against it all.  Never content.  It’s a brutal conundrum.  If the wind is coming in from the west, I’m desperately stuffing into my pillowcase, trying to release it to the north.  Even now, with these words, too much fight inside each one.  That sentence is shit.  There are better words.  The shape of the paragraph, too skinny, needs hips.

    It’s a battle to answer questions.  Any question.  Good morning.  How are you feeling?  How am I feeling?  It’s not that simple.  There’s a high stakes game of tug-of-war going on in my brain.  I don’t have a headache.  Or laryngitis.  You can rule those out.  I’m awake, not sleepy.  Am I good?  The sun came out today, but I was scheduled to work — those are offsetting penalties.  “Fine” would be a lie.  Too generic.  Easily disproved.  I should probably just make noises, pretend to be distracted, not answer any more questions.

    I heard today, on a podcast, two men having a pseudo intellectual slash stoner conversation.   The guest made this point; he got into funks, patterns of negative thinking, stink clouds, whatever they were.  It wasn’t until later in life that he noticed these troubled times generally coincided with periods of substantial growth.  He’s growing, learning, evolving, and his inner sabotage is stabbing him with a pen knife.  Trying to derail the whole thing.  Maybe that’s the case with my self-induced battle-royal — I’m just growing.  I’ll finally fit into that suit I’ve always want to wear.

    Change and growth aren’t synonymous, but they overlap.  It’s possible to have change without growth, but impossible to grow without changing.  Right?  And if two trains leave a sewage treatment plant going opposite directions, and one hits a tree, does anyone hear it?  What the fuck am I talking about?  I don’t have the psychologicalauthority to diagnosis myself.

    What do we have here?  More of the same.  Blaming my mental pingpong match on something commendable, like growth.  How noble of me.  For all I know, I might be shrinking, digressing in mental capacity and openness and general ability.  I don’t remember shit from junior high school.  That’s a sign.  My brain might be developing the same inedible crust that happens on top of old yogurt.

    But there’s no denying the recent surge of new…experiences?  Experience brings about learning, right?  Even if it’s learning by fire.  And a lot of it boils down to the over-paced, completely imaginary, space between where I am and where I want to be.  That’s the fifty-yard line of the mindfuck Super Bowl.  There’s a good chance this deserted, in-between land is barren for a reason.  Maybe that space doesn’t matter at all.  Or maybe I’m just an ape with too much to bitch about.

    Tonight I’ll sleep in my medieval suit of armor.  I’ll be ready for more fighting when the sun comes up.