Dominoes of Indiscretions Down

The air goes in and the air goes out. The faucet drips through the night, metronome ticking the hours away against the plates left in the sink. Train whistles and passing cars, coming and going like inhalation and release. The light rises and fades. Every day another matchstick struck against the rough, lashing out like a flame, only to slowly fade again -- falling all around in cycles -- in circles

Constantly consuming, conquering, devour..

Sometimes it just gets ahead of you. Stretches of days regardless of what you are or aren't doing where there's simply too much time to think about it, to analyze it from positions calling for too much logic, leading to unfettered bouts of dark-edged realism without the protective buffers of optimism or hope available to somehow soften the blow. You feel comparative, competitive. Antagonists without shape, names you only know in passing.

What makes them so great,
Why him and not me?

What am I doing with this life?

It's petty and you know it -- so on top of everything else you feel childish and guilty. Mindcrime uncommitted, yet the thought is remorsed. All of it leading together into this sense of frustration -- this idea that perhaps it's not so much the solutions that are causing the problems, but whether or not the questions are even the right ones to be asking.

It's one thing to value the journey as much as the destination

It's quite another to feel you're just spinning your wheels without knowing which way to go.

[Listening to: Dark New Day, "Free"]