A direct hit of the senses you are disconnected

A direct hit of the senses you are disconnected

I'm floating in a space between over- and under-stimulation and really have no way or drive to get out of it. Coasting, with a laundry list of convictions half holding me up and half crushing me.

I'm somewhere between smart and a fool, between give and take. I don't feel like I'm creating anything. Producing, cultivating, improving, growing, making, inspiring, impacting not much at all. Though, I'm not ruining anything either. Those things I touch don't fail like they sometimes seem to.

I'm disconnected but I'm feeling everything. It's all vivid, it's everywhere, it's pumping through my body, but it's just not here. My purgatory is self-created, self-sustained, self-destructing and it's neither good nor bad. I know there's something better I should be doing, feeling, wanting, giving, but I can't find it and don't know how to look for it.

It's just on the tip of your tongue, and you're so silent.

It's not a rut, because ruts sound like they have teeth like gears and are hard and prickly and something in particular is stuck in the gear, stopping everything with a loud noise. I'm smooth and easy and there are no loud noises. It's quiet. I'm silent. I'm not stopped, I'm gliding.

It's not bad, it's just not right.

Come along, fool.

[lyrics: Chan Marshall/Cat Power]