STATEMENT OF REDISTRIBUTED FOCAL LENGTH

You know for a while there, I was on a constant move-moving unravel-roll one after another,

Thinking I'm gonna do so great by this upcoming third decade, hurrah,

And now...inexplicably...I notice...out-of-gas. Or so it seems. Or it's so hard. I gasp. An unwelcome stutter. I struggle to hold stasis. Very disappointing. Suck down a burrito, makes me a little less disappointed but no less slow. I'm waking up to wake up again.

Did I really just get bored? Or am I allocating too much brain to blips on Google News? Where is my knowledge going? Am I letting it dribble down my cheek when I sleep? Too much broiled broccoli?

Now that I think about it, there's been some obstacles lately. My wilting bicycle (it folded in half). Computer fissures (it cooked itself). A sudden build-up of work demanding now now now (now now now). Not a moment to comprehend or reflect, and the shoulders ache in abundance. Distractions, detracting little bits, peppering my body.

Still, there needs to be a new strategy. Or rather, a first strategy, which supercedes all others and uplifts me to a natural, feathery, orthopedic state. "Take me to that holy waiting room full of fresh academic quarterlies and chiropractic angels," that terrible, clangy conceptual blues song moans. I got inadvertently snippy with the customer service "specialist" and felt bad. I blame it on this shadowing darkness that lacks depth and perspective. At least in feeling bad, I remembered that very few things matter enough to get pissed over, so ignore the lot and make those golden few damn well fully count. Finish projects I start. Creative work, continually and consistently. Probing for new knowledge. And, even, imaginary romance -- as ridiculous as it may be, it heals and purifies nevertheless. So, here's to acknowledging, all of that.