A shadow of a shell of the soul that once felt electric and alive, has now become a petulant stepchild, unruly and unpredictable. Fickle and feisty, it seems to march defiantly to its own beat, with little respect for the rhythm of the collective or the rules that govern the occasion. Turning its back on the gardener who helped it to grow, this rascal spits in the face of convention and sinks into a state of isolation better reserved for prisoners on punishment.
Motivation through coaxing or logic falls on deaf ears, while the routine ruts of a foundation built on quicksand continue to pull. Finding the route to the roots would take an effort of Herculean proportions, so the casing’s commander is forced to abide by behavior that drives a wedge between aspiration and reality, often losing the battle to humdrum habit.
After accepting any port in the storm, seas eventually settle. But the uncertainty wrapped within erratic shifts in energy does little to mollify a constant stream of projection, even when abundant support, reassurance, and logic are at play.
These opposing forces should find some agreeable common ground, not duel to the death for a seat in the front row. But cooperation doesn’t seem to be a priority on the agenda.
The brain is a twisted, torturous playground, delighting in the chaos it creates and laughing at the architect bent over his drafting table, desperately designing blueprints to slow the ascent of lava lurching toward the lip of the volcano.
But every sunrise brings another opportunity to attain that elusive balance, and the pursuit to catch a piece of the past continues.