Slip a thought into my mind and it will circle the drain, tighter and faster, until it falls into the void of familiar territory. I try to write something new, but always I find I am just rewriting and expounding the same thought, adding to its gravitational pull. And so I continue to whine about how hard it is to be me.
I know that I am not special. Everyone has troubles, usually more troublesome than mine. Everyone feels alone and unloved at times. Everyone needs to be rescued from the inevitable and inescapable maelstrom of self. Everyone is at God's mercy. I am not the only one who lives on the periphery of others' lives, in some obscure corner of the unfathomably complex Venn diagram of social spheres. My inadequacies do not make me special.
Fortunately my days are beginning to fill up again, keeping me from wallowing and ultimately drowning in the unstructured hours, sucked down into the briny darkness of self-discovery. I can take shape only when I am not looking.
