"it's only a gift if you use it"

Losing a lot of time to Lumosity, specifically the word games.

I'm fussing about a lot the past couple days. Not in a particularly upset way, but I feel like I'm always churning over something, some mental/emotional equivalent of a cow's digestive process. Financial goals, self-help books, pet mortality, joy, metrics, appearance, profession, family, writing. The same things keep coming around again and again, and either I'm doomed to keep repeating my history, or I'm chipping away at them every time they swing by, and eventually I'll wear them away to nothing.

Everything seems simultaneously worth thinking about and worth not over-examining. And assigning worth seems full of hubris, but necessary. I say all sorts of really naked things to Delight, but then shy away from chronicling anything, in any form. I block out transit times in my calendar, so looking at a week will reflect more closely how I actually spend it. I don't mind the commute so much, but I feel better about my productivity when I realize I spend at least 12 hours a week getting from point A to point B and back again.

Half the songs in my Ipod catch my attention, like a hook or a hangnail, and a lyric can easily send me freewheeling through topics. I'm learning to keep myself half-busy when walking, fingerspelling songs and signs to myself until my knuckles hurt, a technique to distract myself, like standing on one leg to keep myself from having enough focus to get anxious, or visualizing the process of knitting in my head to force myself to sleep.

I used to think my sea-level was depression, or even despair, that I could rise above it sometimes, but gravity would always pull me back, and the air would always be harder to breathe the further I got away from what I thought of as my roots. But all dye jobs grow out eventually, and most of my metaphors end up getting musty and frayed at the edges.

And I'm not getting maudlin exactly, but it is late enough that the rhythm of the words is starting to matter more than the meaning, so I think it's time for fleece pants and ambien.

"it's only a gift if you use it"

Losing a lot of time to Lumosity, specifically the word games.

I'm fussing about a lot the past couple days. Not in a particularly upset way, but I feel like I'm always churning over something, some mental/emotional equivalent of a cow's digestive process. Financial goals, self-help books, pet mortality, joy, metrics, appearance, profession, family, writing. The same things keep coming around again and again, and either I'm doomed to keep repeating my history, or I'm chipping away at them every time they swing by, and eventually I'll wear them away to nothing.

Everything seems simultaneously worth thinking about and worth not over-examining. And assigning worth seems full of hubris, but necessary. I say all sorts of really naked things to Delight, but then shy away from chronicling anything, in any form. I block out transit times in my calendar, so looking at a week will reflect more closely how I actually spend it. I don't mind the commute so much, but I feel better about my productivity when I realize I spend at least 12 hours a week getting from point A to point B and back again.

Half the songs in my Ipod catch my attention, like a hook or a hangnail, and a lyric can easily send me freewheeling through topics. I'm learning to keep myself half-busy when walking, fingerspelling songs and signs to myself until my knuckles hurt, a technique to distract myself, like standing on one leg to keep myself from having enough focus to get anxious, or visualizing the process of knitting in my head to force myself to sleep.

I used to think my sea-level was depression, or even despair, that I could rise above it sometimes, but gravity would always pull me back, and the air would always be harder to breathe the further I got away from what I thought of as my roots. But all dye jobs grow out eventually, and most of my metaphors end up getting musty and frayed at the edges.

And I'm not getting maudlin exactly, but it is late enough that the rhythm of the words is starting to matter more than the meaning, so I think it's time for fleece pants and ambien.