There are times throughout the year in which I find myself plagued by a vast irritability and profound selfishness that renders me incapable of understanding or tolerating even the most minor of faults. All things render me mindlessly enraged, unspeakably irked. And then, as if a tornado, they are gone, and I am left with a wasteland mind. All things seem duller, and the vast array of connections that make up my thoughts are mired and obfuscated. It is as if my emotions become a runaway train, carrying my mind far from home and stopping only when my thoughts are but a distant speck on the horizon. This is no peaceful emptiness, but an the unaskedfor isolation of a political prisoner.
My faculties reduced to mere reaction and dense fog, I have no choice but to stand stupidly in the wastes until my brain can return from its caper of exhaustion. This lack of motivation is a pox upon my days. To spend days adrift with neither hopes nor driving goals for the future. To simply engage in a schedule. To idly coast on, hoping to find some new fuel or some energy that will drag me from the doldrums. To consult the wisdom of my own mind and be answered by naught but a wind whistling through desolate caverns. These are the torturous days in which I am not myself.
Come back to me mind. Come back to me will. Indulge not in your wanderlust alone, but carry me with you that I may see the vistas you traverse.