sometimes the leaf just won't turn over.

i have been trying, for the past few days, to meditate.

the problem is that whenever i think about it (first counterproductive approach to meditation!), i can't help but feel like some new aged asshole trying to just find my niche in the universe, man. just trying to dip my feet in this great, collective soul.

and then, because i am such a cynical shithead, i can't get to the place in which i desperately need to be: the place where maybe i'll be able to finally shut everything off.

my brain and i have been in an ever-escalating skirmish for the last two months: a genuine synaptical warfare. i try to wield its powers and go through the motions i have grown accustomed to it performing and it just sputters out on me every single time. halting. contesting.

"fuck you," it says. "it's lovely that you want to access a memory or two from when everything was easier. i see that you're looking to find a beacon. but it's been quite a while since you made use of all of that angst and self-detruction you stockpiled in your teen years and i got tired of minding the surplus."

"i understand this isn't the best time to break down," it explains. "but i must."

it doesn't help that many anchors of stability have been lifted up and out of my life. with this sudden motion away from things i know, or things i thought i knew, i am once again granted with the curse/privilege of starting over. and this is where this blog's utility finally comes into play.

i am fucking fantastic at making excuses. this talent continues to flourish because i can talk in circles around people and have them forget about holding me accountable if i simply integrate some GRE vocab words, an anecdote about my dead father, or a retelling of a horror story at some place of employment. but i am too busy. but i am so exhausted. but i am too predisposed to failure. but i am simply depleted of ideas and what hasn't been done before?

i've accumulated enough spun yarns to virtually strangle anyone who pushes me to try something new with.

i am entirely too skilled at succumbing to distractions and painting them as omniconsuming necessities.

however, i am hoping that a public medium will force me away from that. my genetically inherited anxiety and guilt make a situation like this ideal for actually getting things done.

i don't know what direction this'll take, but i do know that if i give up on writing then i am completely abusing a very real part of myself. i know that none of this will start getting better any time soon. wounds ready for the licking.