There are distinct moments in every day where I feel as though I have a rowdy multitude of thoughts taking residence in my head. And I do, I suppose. But so many of these thoughts seemed to have broken loose from their proper home, bouncing and gliding around the caverns of my head, similar to an astronaut in a spaceship, experiencing the irony of a world without gravity for the first time.
So, I desperately try to reach up and grab each of these thoughts by their wily ends. I try to pull them down to a place where I can manage them- where I can tie them up or make them look pretty. I want to organize them by color, by depth, by feeling. I want to make them make sense- to package them in a way that feels more systematic and digestible.
I want to write them down. In a book, I guess. And share this book to only the people who know me and love me so that they can understand these large caverns, filled with stalagmites of worry and stalactites of terrible jokes. I want to peek inside these spaces and not get scared of the dark. I want to make sense of myself almost every day.
And the thing is, almost every day, I don’t.
But then, when I lay down at night, I can't help but think,
making sense is highly over-rated.
And so is gravity.