Abulia

I am without will to sustain a heavy thought stream, to manage the flow of a current. When we feel the power of flow within us and we do nothing with it but push it away from our center, are we better than a toilet? Ah ha, that old trick--turn my personal flaws into a shared discussion of misery, blame, and commiseration. Weaker than this coffee I'm drinking in some kind of attempt to rekindle a former me.

There's the problem right there--celebrating my past as a victory, a preferred state. A roach about to be flattened doesn't reminisce about safer days, it runs for life. Terribly sad it is to wait until moments of weakness and boredom to feel best about that cliche we call written life.

When will the logjam shatter? When will nature reclaim its beast within my unforgiving chambers? Answer: When I stop waiting for gravity and the passive world to act on me and I become subject in my own sentence.