How did this all come about? How the french toast is it that my life is here, at a stand-still at 8:30p on a Saturday. And at the same time, it's pulling at every limb, every hair follicle so that it feels like every nerve ending is engaged and firing at capacity. My brain's running circles around particular thoughts, this supposition and that. But I see no end, no white light down a dark corridor. Perhaps a twinkle, but one can never be sure, especially when pessimism weighs heavy. It's from a stark realism that I'd always sieve through the quandaries of existence through. It catches most optimism and does away with wishful thinking. There's a comfort in such stalwart resolve. I attribute this agitated sense of perfectionism to exactly that. And for this I find myself truly blessed. It's a double-edged sword, that blessing though. A persistence for perfection can only be ridden so far before it kicks you off to the side of the road with nothing and nobody close enough to help you up and brush the grit and dust off your back.
