All of this introspection is beginning to feel claustrophobic. I am constantly writing in my head. I want to be present. Therapist has suggested on numerous occasions that I should meditate. She's right, but in lieu of trying to chase thoughts out of my head I am going to read the next 4 books of Game of Thrones.
I wrote another message to Frank and the reiteration is not just claustrophobic, it's humiliating and frustrating.
And the whole analyzing thing is getting ridiculous. I started a whole theory on the parallels between regurgitating conversations in the hopes if gleaming the one thing out of them that's not there and creationism. Suddenly I found myself empathizing with that obsessive need to make reality bend to fit some bizarre but preferred truth about garden gnomes.
It's the fool's gold that gets us every time. It's the whole white whale thing, I thought. And then I thought that maybe I should read Moby Dick before I used that particular allegory.
I tried once, I got bored.
What's the point of trying so hard to make sense of it all when you're just sticking with what you want to believe anyway?
I am not going to be in my head for a while; I am not going to explore, write about or talk about its contents. I am going to spend time alone in my happy place.
Over and out.