Free AI web copilot to create summaries, insights and extended knowledge, download it at here

Abstract

is a 24-hour dread with which I live in my inert, quiet unease, exacerbated by checking my phone too much.I succumb to the fear of missing out and the vague unknowing of what’s to come.The phone is an umbilical cord to the world of too much information that paralyzes me. Casts me into hypothetical wonder.While skirting the shelves in my mind packed with sardined thoughts, I sit in sedentary hysteria stuck in a swirl of circumstances I mostly can’t control.Reactive dissonance isn’t the answer nor is a tweet to the choir I know. There are too many shrill choirs in tribal America.Opinions split between fake and real, the determination of which is questionable to many. For me, the lines get blurrier by the day. As I struggle with my own blurred lines between the comfort of discomfort and the discomfort of the possible.I linger in a warm-up suit inside my house, safe from the threat of transition to a new job, new friends, new clothes. They appear distant like the time I squander thinking, while changing positions on the couch (now sitting), earlier lying down, reading the news.Too much news. News my dog wouldn’t understand or care about.His legs twitch in REM sleep, dreaming happy. The look of contentment on his face, a look I've never worn.Contentment eludes the thoughts that bustle in my head. Spinning on an

Options

axis of fear and uncertainty, anxious about the outcome of my day or week from now.At work, my hours dwindle from 16 to 12. I am a victim of my employer’s whims, which I shouldn’t be. I should take control, the first step toward autonomy.But fear lingers on the horizon — that dark funnel cloud that twists itself into knots.And I defer to a paralyzing concept: looking for a job at age 61 is like looking for a contact lens I dropped on the rug. I’ll never find it. Long after it has lost its pliability (like me), I’ll accidentally step on it, shattering the dry shell it has become.That’s what my day is like (a dry shell) except it hasn’t cracked yet. Give it time… the elusive kind that beguiles and befuddles me. I can’t seem to embrace the concept like my dog can’t embrace the human condition.Do we ever reach the point of too much human?Is there a point of too much-dogged content?Is there a point at all?Maybe I’ve blunted the point by degrading it into hypotheticals instead of upgrading it into actionables.I can still effect change, but not today while my whiney self still squats inside my head.Tomorrow, another orange morning glow promises redemption, and I send an eviction notice to my whiney self. When she leaves my head, she’ll scream, “You haven’t seen the last of me!”</article></body>

A Dogged Pursuit of the Truth

A poetic thought piece.

I lost my mind today but then found it with the point.

An old dog lays on a pillow twice his size. His head entombed in a cone facing sunlight, as the day dwindles to an end.

I obsess on intangibles. My to-do’s caught in an entanglement of thoughts — how do I get from here to there when there’s seemingly out of reach on the other side of the world?

Keeping track of thoughts is as troublesome as time, an elusive measurement of moments.

Quantified by the many thoughts on the front shelf in my mind, vying for attention: writing, politics, the holocaust (really!), my elderly parents, my husband and son (always) and my 16-year old dog on the pillow in recline and decline.

He must be comforted by his dreams, his body limp, splayed out on the pillow in respite.

I envy his reality.

Mine is more muddled because I am human. I follow the news of a chaotic White House and the lost agency officials who've become collateral damage in an internal war against democracy.

The fear of losing stability to the whims of a narcissistic madman is a 24-hour dread with which I live in my inert, quiet unease, exacerbated by checking my phone too much.

I succumb to the fear of missing out and the vague unknowing of what’s to come.

The phone is an umbilical cord to the world of too much information that paralyzes me. Casts me into hypothetical wonder.

While skirting the shelves in my mind packed with sardined thoughts, I sit in sedentary hysteria stuck in a swirl of circumstances I mostly can’t control.

Reactive dissonance isn’t the answer nor is a tweet to the choir I know. There are too many shrill choirs in tribal America.

Opinions split between fake and real, the determination of which is questionable to many. For me, the lines get blurrier by the day. As I struggle with my own blurred lines between the comfort of discomfort and the discomfort of the possible.

I linger in a warm-up suit inside my house, safe from the threat of transition to a new job, new friends, new clothes. They appear distant like the time I squander thinking, while changing positions on the couch (now sitting), earlier lying down, reading the news.

Too much news. News my dog wouldn’t understand or care about.

His legs twitch in REM sleep, dreaming happy. The look of contentment on his face, a look I've never worn.

Contentment eludes the thoughts that bustle in my head. Spinning on an axis of fear and uncertainty, anxious about the outcome of my day or week from now.

At work, my hours dwindle from 16 to 12. I am a victim of my employer’s whims, which I shouldn’t be. I should take control, the first step toward autonomy.

But fear lingers on the horizon — that dark funnel cloud that twists itself into knots.

And I defer to a paralyzing concept: looking for a job at age 61 is like looking for a contact lens I dropped on the rug. I’ll never find it. Long after it has lost its pliability (like me), I’ll accidentally step on it, shattering the dry shell it has become.

That’s what my day is like (a dry shell) except it hasn’t cracked yet. Give it time… the elusive kind that beguiles and befuddles me. I can’t seem to embrace the concept like my dog can’t embrace the human condition.

Do we ever reach the point of too much human?

Is there a point of too much-dogged content?

Is there a point at all?

Maybe I’ve blunted the point by degrading it into hypotheticals instead of upgrading it into actionables.

I can still effect change, but not today while my whiney self still squats inside my head.

Tomorrow, another orange morning glow promises redemption, and I send an eviction notice to my whiney self. When she leaves my head, she’ll scream, “You haven’t seen the last of me!”