On days like today,

I want to write, but the writing is useless or unusable

I want to buy things, but it’s normally things I don’t need.

On days like these, I feel fucked up

My world pulls me from all conceivable sides.

I can’t, but want to, dive into one of my callings,

But I worry about abandoning the others.

So I stay idle until a big project prevails.

On days like these, I take apart perfectly good things.

I make messes trying to clean

I can’t read, because it wastes time.

I can’t relax, because there is so much to do.

I can’t do anything of use because my obsessions sit at a crossroads.

They all want attention, and none of them want to share.

On days like these, small voices of me call out.

Buy a typewriter.

Buy a race helmet.

Street Luge.

Read all the books by one author.

Walk all the miles that you can.

Climb a mountain 10 times.

And on. And on. And on they go. They go. They go on and on.

And they plead. Bargain. Barter. They beg for

me to use them. They want to be fed. They need attention.

I need a break.

On days like these, I take a nap.

All the me’s are forced to shut up for a while.

Although they wouldn’t agree to doing so.

Fuck them.