Dilapidated

My mind is conflicted. Two halves pushing against each other, almost forced that way. So much I want to write and do and think. But I'm holed up in an office all pseudo-comfortable focusing on things that waste my time, that are wasteful. There's so much else I could be doing. But I need to earn, to make money, to make a living. It's hypocritical I know, it's counterproductive and yet, I don't know how else to evade it right now. I want out, but I also want in. I want to explore and interrogate the world and my own mind. I want to probe depths and swim through my mucky thoughts--it's a swamp in there I tell you, but it's hardening, igneous-style, a liquid dynamo of lava into sedentary rock. Rock is great--I love rock--it's large and grandiose but just there, always just there and unable to do anything. Sure it can be imposing, but it can also be conquered. Oh our mountainous minds.

So what to do? Keep feeling confused? Keep going about my business in ways I wish I weren't? No, no way. I can't keep it up. My ambition (do I really have any?) will have to flow out, and quickly, through other outlets. Okay I guess I just made up my mind.

I feel like Mikie.