always trying, forever failing. i am in the midst of the constant attempt at anything: perfection, the planning of this life in a responsible and seemly fashion so as to be the best me and to also make the most of my time, care for the people i am designated to care for in an appropriate manner, responsibly, evenly. i am in the midst of trying to be, of trying to do all the dumb crap i gotta do, of trying to become something other than what i am. i am in the midst of sorting it out, being uniquely myself, being balanced and zen. i am in the midst of trying, trying, trying. i am in the midst of forgetting, of failing, of doing it wrong and hardly learning anything from it at all. i will simply have to do it again, fall down over and over and nearly never get it right, occasionally hitting on something that makes some sense, but promptly losing it. it is life. it is what it is. but in the midst of all my attempts at everything, i am in the midst of overlooking the destination, denying the desirability of it in order to calm the thirst and judging others in bitterness of what i lack. i suppose that's the cycle of what it is. it is part and parcel of the trying trying trying and the sorting and sifting. i feel like my thoughts are objects that i turn over and over in my hands, working them, caressing and molding, rounding, shaping, and all the while discovering, seeing what it is and feeling the weight of it, trying to sense each curve and crack, trying to be and understand whatever it is. i am at a loss to know the truth behind any motivation. i can't say for certain where thoughts come from; what dreams may come. what is the purpose? what is the plan? how is this and how ever do i do? i plainly do not know. the weight of this and that - tragedy, turmoil, mundane nothingness - it's all similar, stacked similarly in my brain and in my belly. i devote as much time to deciding what's for dinner as i do to anything else. and yet so often i can't determine these patterns. the stress of my life is so intangible - it comes of nothing and from nowhere. it is just the invisible pressure to do. the nonsensical force moving me in forward directions. i do and i do and i do and always my thoughts find fault, my heart senses absence. i cannot be everything all at once all the time.

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