Every few months, I hit a wall.
It’s solid.
Very solid.
I know I’m at it when I stop talking.
And the tears start rolling
But even more than that
My feet become molten leaden
And I have no desire for nothing
And I start moving slower and slower in space
Until I start backpedaling
Faster and faster
And faster
Until going backwards becomes fun
And I thumb my nose in the face
Of every other face I worshipped as inconsolable
I become irresolute.
And I am happiest that way.