So much to process.
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Process, process, process,
Until sleep switches off my endless conveyor belt of over-analyzation.

Tonight I'll precisely pick apart things that have no business being harnessed
Until perfect rest precludes my process-a-palooza.

**** this brain.
And **** the thoughts that float through it, wispy, adrift.
Aimless, with no hope of reaching the other side, the action side.

I know exactly what's going to happen.
And yet, still, I will repeat this process.

The definition of insanity comes to mind.
Am I insane?
Those who do what they've always done will get what they've always gotten.
So some frustration is coming down the pipeline, undoubtedly.

But here I am.

Keeping myself awake while my little mind powers through minutes and seconds and hours of data
Burning itself out completely
And yet accomplishing nothing.

Moral of the story?
To overthink is to run a car for hours with no one driving it,
To study vigorously and then not take the test,
To hedge your bets,
To run on a treadmill,
To fight an uphill battle,
To enter into a no-win scenario on purpose.

To analyze too much is to work the muscles of your sanity to the point of tearing. **** it, **** it all. This crucible of introspection, I hate it.

It's all thinking, and no doing.
What kind of world would we have built on thought? Deceptive, static and imprisoned thought, in and of itself?

The procession marches on through the early morning hours,
Until sleep rescues me from this malicious rabble of thoughts
I cringe at their noise, I grow weak from the weight of such an immense amount of perception  

My mind shifts and sifts through it all
Until I finally lose consciousness.

Whatever God created one like me?
One filled with such a stunning yearn
To be lauded so bountifully
To have the praise I feel I've earned

And yet what deceitful praise be this?
This medal, prize, or boon I seek?
Life's great champion gets a kiss
At his stage's end, upon his cheek

Life's not worth living, lest I receive
The title I think rightfully mine
From it I truly feel bereaved
My great pursuit, my silver line

But to what end will I yet place?
My worth on such a goal as this
This victory I've given all to chase
I fear that it does not exist

Outside my mind there's no such thing
As being "first" or "better" than
These people I've been slandering
For ego's sake, my fellow man

What will become of the narcissist?
And of the competitor at that?
My flaws make a prodigious list
My pride is huge, my doubt is fat

The only cure is to accept
Perfection is an imperfect aim
I'm smart to think that I'm inept
And that for me, to lose is gain

I cannot help but know you're there
I see you like I see the air
A force that yea eludes my sight
A pow'r that knows no end of might
Though fire and water cause me strife
I know the wind will give me life
I trust in it to fill my lungs
And so for e'er and e'er my tongue
Will sing no greater truths than these
That you are God,
And I must breathe.

I wish you could see me struggle.
I wish I could tell you that it isn't one-sided, that you aren't alone, but I can't. That's the point of a step back.

But for now I'll count the minutes until I can come back. That's the best part of any leave of absence taken in love, the return.

When will it be? I couldn't tell you. This was started on a gut feeling, and it will end the same way. But my feelings won't change. They're like poison in my veins right now, stinging, wanting to escape. I did this because of love, I pray to God I'll get to end it for the sane reason.

I can see her breach the horizon.
Finding her way down a dirt road, that's familiar to me but not to many others.
A mare, powerful and strong.
No saddle, no reins, just her own natural force directing her where to go. She is beautiful, and her freedom makes her just that much more so.
I want to go to her.
I want to be where she is, in her world. I don't want to tame her. I don't want to fence her in, to exercise control. I couldn't even think of how to try.

Her magnitude is inescapable, but I must keep my distance. I want to approach her, but I cannot. As much as she attracts me, I dare not interfere.

For she is wild and free, and I am not. I wouldn't dream of poisoning her perfectly pastoral existence with my minutia. My world is one that moves too fast for her to be included in it.

So on the horizon she must stay, with all her liberty to walk on whatever dirt roads she pleases.

Ah, the mercurial female pursuit!
The greatest and the damnedest game
What stunning highs and cruel lows
Where patience is lost and hearts are claimed

To feel the the pleasure of the chase!
The pursuit is worth the heavy toil
Great angst and fear are put to shame,
Eclipsed by sweet romance's spoil

But what is this? It seems to me
The playing ground's all bare today
Except for stone-faced referees
None of the players have come to play

I'll have to turn about and leave
No man can play this game alone
It seems an awful waste but yea
I'll pack my things and head back home.

I've tried to play a number of times
Prepped and practiced, just in case
There'd be another player to play
A worthy foe for me to face.

And we are made to play, and win
This game that we've all known and seen
This challenge, unequaled! Upon the earth
The greatest sport that's ever been

My spirit falters, as time marches on
Diligence, heart, and patience all wilt
I know not why this all must pass
Is this the thing for which I was built?

But I believe that someday soon
The pitch will shine an ecchoing green
And on that day I'll play the game
Against a player as yet unseen.

What a price to pay to say "well said"
For all great phrasing comes from great tumult
And gladness, sadness, joy are all but fuel
As the "sayers" translate thought to word

They are as hunters, patiently in wait
For a great stirring deep within their being
Emotion wildlife rustling the trees
The game that does not recognize the game

Strategic are these hunters, clever souls
Whose precision cannot be repeated
Miners for the gold within their hearts
Exploring, exploiting their perceptions

And yet, it is but great coincidence.
They do not mean to feel, but still accept
The ludic, accidental inquiries
Subpoenas to their creativity

How much does it cost, a wondrous phrase?
The charge is pain, or love in great amounts
For words upon the page can but reflect
The bittersweetness of their author's id