Honestly, I think my brain is broken. I can’t seem to get my head around the simplest things, and yet from time to time I can still go deep on ridiculous detail. Some weird selector is at work, but it’s outside my control, it seems.
Also, conversations feel like games of chess, and I’m plagued with a certainty that they used to be much easier, freer, happier? If I’m having a purple patch, I think I come across as clever and self-satisfied; if I’m not concentrating, I look like I can barely add up whole numbers. So I’m either Mr Magoo or Gary Kasparov. Some nuance would be nice. How about me, somewhere in the middle?
I can’t seem to write poems either. I get stuck. It’s a marker of something - like a silting of the brain, or a long slow CPU failure; you know, when the processor is chunking along at nearly 100% and there’s not enough RAM to even close down the windows.
I’m desperate for life to be simple. Perhaps it is really, and I’m just overthinking it. I feel like that was amusing once. It’s not though is it: complex man thinks life might be simple, but he’s not sure because he’s either too simple or too complex to understand the difference.
Complex man needs a break, I reckon.
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