. . .

My mind is cluttered and thick today -- my ability to focus on a task feels more like a disability. I feel like a failure and I’m filled with envy those who minds maneuver effortlessly.

I wonder if I’m damaged goods, or if I simply lack the discipline that others have accepted and integrated into their lives?

If consciousness requires clarity of thought, then I must be comatose.

. . .

My spirit has retreated deep into a murky bog of indeterminate glop.

I hold on tight to whatever buoy I can imagine…because the undertow of mental quicksand is dangerous.

I’ve been here before -- in this place of anxiety and inaction.

Each visit grows a bit more wearisome.

Regret, anger, cynicism, bitterness, dread and despair are circling like a pack of wolves. Can I fend them off, or should I join their ranks and prey on others?

. . .

I know there’s a way out of this mental muck – but I must face a chasm of indecision.

And I’m simply too afraid, too tired and too disillusioned to attempt the leap to the other side.

And so, I hold on to whatever hope I can muster.

Namely, that I can, at least, float…