Complacently static

I am locked up inside my head right now, worrying hard that my impulses are getting away from me.
Worrying that perhaps my impulses are not the problem. Worrying that I have no objective system for differentiating.
Where is that I want to go? I don’t know, so I guess the fork I take doesn’t matter.

I am worried that the vibrations of my voice will rattle my head until I don’t know what’s up, 
that my own voice is a will of the wisp beckoning to places I have no business being.

I am worried that my incessant desires to chase and reciprocate will diminish the magnitude of my returns.
I am worried that the voice of judged creativity (is it good, etc) will continue to run my life until I second-guess every word that flies from me.
Big dogs on leashes walk beside me, my hand gripping tight onto loops of thick fabric.
I suspect the dogs know that they can outpace and overpower me, but they trot beside me peacefully.

For now, at least. 

Oh man and that fact – that fact that at any moment one of these complacently static dogs could get spooked and run, scraping my skin down asphalt and sidewalks – reminds me how little in control I am of anything in my life. Anything could turn at any moment, starting with a morning walk.

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