The easy way out is to say that I’m tired, that I’ve been at work all day, and I just don’t want to deal. And it’s all true, I’m not making it up.

But, yeah, I agree, there is something awfully disingenuous about it. I know I’m kidding myself. I know that if really wanted to do something about my sad and sorry state, I would. I would get off my fat ass and actually do it.

Instead, I’m lying passively on the road, waiting for destiny to just run me over.

There were so many things I thought I could do. There are these hours that I just seem to waste, parked in front of this computer screen.

I’m trying to figure out the answer, trying to sort through the multiple layers of defense mechanisms and rationalizations, trying to navigate the labyrinthine dimensions of my convoluted and tortured soul. And maybe it’s really just some Gödelian paradox, some warped version of Turing’s Halting Problem. It’s like standing in front of two mirrors trying to get a good look at the back of your head. I’m not sure it’s really possible.

Most people who know me well know that I have a quasi-borderline personality. I am a man of extremes. If I can’t have it one way, then I’ll take the polar opposite. Half-measures are only something that I can get to accidentally. So I’m trying to get my mind to wrap around the idea of going the opposite way—of simply not thinking about things anymore, and just doing. So far it’s been a horrific farce.

There have been way too many nights I’ve lain awake tossing and turning, worrying about inconsequential things, with cold sweat dripping down my back. There are nights where I’d rather be faced with my gravest nightmares rather than deal with my near-infinite anxiety-ridden trifles. These little things that I agonize over and turn and twirl over and over again in my mind, analyzing things from every conceivable angle and flagellating myself for all the missteps I’ve taken.

For someone who has made so many mistakes, it’s a miracle I’ve gotten to where I’ve gotten. There is a part of me (like most depressed people) that fears that I’m nothing more than a successful fraud, but there comes a point where even I realize my self-deprecation is ridiculous.

Whatever else happens to me, there are things I know, things that would be difficult to take away from me without significantly ravaging my mind and irreversibly altering my soul. Without these things, I’m not who I am. You take them away, you might as well take away my name. I will cease to be.

There is a deep core inside me that resists dissection and analysis. If I could just learn to rest upon this center, if I could just let it hold me, instead of letting my mind flit to and fro between each and every single miniscule overwrought crisis.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again and again. What I’m looking for is Home. The place to set my taproot deep into the soil, so that my existence becomes enmeshed with where I am. Maybe I’m going about it all wrong, and there is probably quite a bit of truth in the clichéd idea that Home is not a mere place. But whatever Home is (you know, that whole ideal of Family, of stability, of safety, whatever you want to call it), whatever I’m looking for, I’m nowhere near finding it. I think that’s the most prominent reason as to why my soul continues to roil and rage. I am grasping at anything to keep me from drowning.

There is some pretty stark desperation that is beginning to set in. Every day is a ridiculous struggle, and I look to the future and can only imagine it’s going to get harder, and yet I continue to hope against all hope that one day I’ll find that (perhaps metaphoric) shore where I can finally rest.

JdG said best when she noted that I’m such a tortured soul. I wish I could fix this, I wish I could just be… still. Just for one moment that I could freeze forever in my memory, fix it in place as the center upon which all my maniacal roving and pacing can revolve around. Just one moment of perfect, tranquil stillness preserved in amber, forever there for me to bask in and imbibe.

I really don’t know what I’m saying. And that is my excuse for today.