I am a slow slug this morning.  Fighting the alarm.  Sneaking extra minutes.  Then rushing and slamming.  What a dull game of bumper cars we live in our heads: spirit-human, glory-despair, breath-death, purpose-nothing.  Like a yo-yo game, up and down, back and forth, going nowhere really.

Perhaps it is all about practicing the back and forth, this life.  Getting used to uselessness, enjoying bits of accomplishments, playing with wistful dreams and disappearing memories.  Making good stories sounds like a decent purpose.  But then I’m supposed to just sit and feel my feelings.  BAH.

Glacial ice melts, but it takes too long.  Most days I’d rather just be a tiny rolling stone.