Though not totally cyclical, it is certainly a theme I tend to arrive upon again, and again. It is an attraction to being frantic, of a sort. Not panicked or out of control. Just always almost in a hurry.

It’s an idea that there are a large number of things that must be got at and got at good. And this guy, the narrator, can find rest in movement. And, find a fury in rest. Or at least the kind that feels unearned.

It should be noted again that this is not always the way the mind and life I allegedly possess tends to go. This is just my favorite mood and mode for going about existence. A mad man.

You see, due to a heavy combination of personal responsibilities, social go-about sort of things and the plague of slightly changing, yet poetically consistent creative ambitions- I find myself going from one thing to the next, to the next, next, so on, etc. If sacrifices must be made to make all these things be the best that they can be, then such cuts from my own budget. Young adult humans, which most statistics would still count me as, can function at higher stress levels than those much younger and/or older. Science and such.

Sleep when you’re dead, sort of deal. Though milder. Plan on staying alive long enough to some fulfill obligations. To the self and a few others.

Now, you may think that spread too thin, failures occur. And, well, duh. Failure is ever looming no matter what we do. Luck or unluck. Man plans. Applause sign lights up. God laughs. But even with all that, ‘tis better to try and fail than not try at all.

Or was it love and lose, than not? Same principle, I suppose.

Further though, I stand with argument about to spill forth that if done correctly, the many directions of effort can bolster and reinforce each other, rather than eat away. This leads to that being stronger, and that for this. Rambling words can inspire rambling notes and pitches. Rambling pitch turned to song can get shared with others. Tied tight enough to not let go yet lose to let the movement be, might just make a bond or two with another soul. Perhaps thousands, millions, billions of other souls. For some.

And keeping the chemistry lab inside our skin balanced and all the mechanical bits in good repair can certainly help keep the ol’ noggin in line. But we beasts are all unlikely to live forever, no matter how grand and militant the diet plan. And even if it were possible, what kind of weirdo would want to live forever? So, run a mile, eat some pizza. Drink a beer or several today, counter with water. That sort of thing.

A life without a feast here and there, is no life at all.

But I fear I must be cheating something here. For all I can think of in the format of this habitual post is about how many other matters request my attention. And I’ll be damned, but I feel the urge elsewhere as I write.

But were I to leave this alone. Let it rot, we’ll say. That rot will spread. And spread. Almost unnoticeable until it has you surrounded. Then there you are, wallowing in what you yourself see as weak, pathetic, or worst of all… boring. So somehow, without feeling forced, I manage myself upon this page in genuine fashion. And with this feeling of accomplishment, though far from grandiose it be, off we go into the next matter.

Just enough time. Just enough words. For each time, is different. Each passing or hanging moment, unique in some way.

And I go, as I try my most earnest to do, without some shackle of regret.