Fair 3 Ah, roaming thoughts on a windy but unseasonably warm December afternoon. Where could this possibly take me? Do I want to know? Do I wish to go?

Thinking too much about what you really think can lead to unintended feelings of any and all sorts, whisking you kicking and screaming into a faraway land that exists only in your own head. As the fighting spirit of Henry Rollins can attest to, it keeps your mind on your mind. 

Is this where I am? Because I have definitely been locked up in the same thought chamber long enough to count the cobwebs that have accumulated. I need to clean them out. I need to do a lot of things, though. I'm working on it.

It’s on the list.

Life gets away, minute by minute. Each moment we spend on any one thing is a moment we will never get back, and I feel the unrelenting pressure to make them count by my own unforgiving definition. Get this done, take care of that, handle business of all types, personally, professionally and otherwise.

All the while, morning fades into afternoon, which is systematically blended into evening.

Then another night makes its presence known until another day is scratched from the calendar and passed on to the boneyard of the past. There, it dances with the spirits, ghosts, angels and demons of bygone bliss, pleasure and pain. What an electric party they throw, reveling mightily in the dancehall of our minds.

I panic when I am reminded my soul has nothing to wear to the ball; my go-to rags are full of holes. I need some new apparel. It’s on the list.

I’m told I need to ease up on myself, to take care of myself first and not overly concern myself with what I perceive to be the needs of others. But what if taking care of others is an integral part of where you've found purpose? What if personal happiness cannot be achieved until it is first spread throughout the circle? How realistic is this thought process anyway, when it’s impossible to be everything for everyone at all times?

How plausible is this concept when attempting this stunt can often be defeating in the end? Will it drain you; drown you? Will you drown someone else? Do you care too much, or not enough? Is anybody really out there? Is everybody too out there?

Where is this trip taking us?

Too many questions for the wondering, wandering mind to process, let alone answer. For the sake of preserving my energy and sanity, I will not attempt to forge ahead with solutions … not today. I will merely allow my fingers to shuttle thoughts onto this electronic playground. Here they will seesaw, swing and roam freely, all while avoiding the slide.

The slide can be fun, yet daunting. You just never know where that winding bastard leads to, and it is often too tall and twisting to see the awaiting puddle of mud at the bottom. This puddle might not even exist, mind you, but such uncertainty breeds a fear of chance. But wasn’t that same uncertainty part of the thrill once upon a time? Wasn’t the unknown and a roll of the dice what kept it all so interesting and full of enchantment?

So what happened? What changed?

As our soul's clothes wear thin over time, we tend to feel an unsettling pressure of keeping them as clean and orderly as possible. They must be salvaged, because finding new clothes brings us face to face with how we have changed. A size that once fit perfectly may now be too tight or too loose, too bright or obtuse, and this revelation is only revealed once we get the nerve to try on something new. Embarrassment - even in a private corner of self-scrutiny - is not high on anyone’s list, is it?

Not for those whose quietest moments are ironically their loudest. Or is it the other way around?

Damn, another question … put it on the list.

That means avoiding the goddamn slide and all the risk it brings. What would others think if they saw us in our Sunday dirtiest, after all? It would be unacceptable, and we would be kicked out of the club. Kicked to the curb.

Kicked when we’re up, kicked when we’re down. Kicked when we’re stiff, kicked all around.

And what will we get? Exactly … more dirty laundry. I can’t chance it; I already need new clothes. It’s on the list.

Ah, roaming thoughts on a windy but unseasonably warm December afternoon.

Even to the brave and mighty whose nerves have not yet been frayed by the gauntlet time sends us running through with hair ablaze, there is a secret desire to keep the clothes clean and free from static cling. They don’t care what others think, they insist with a jug full of untainted bravado, or youthful defiance fueled by naiveté and a cache of good looks.

But even they, in all their splendor, eventually begin to pay closer attention to that strange character in the mirror who seems to look increasingly stranger with age. It is only noticed in intervals rather than through daily scrutiny, though. The colors fade and wrinkles appear gradually, as do holes in the knees from crawling when walking or running wasn’t an option.

But hey, whatever gets you across that finish line to start the next race, right?

Keep those threads as sharp as you can, because that party of the past is only getting more crowded as each moment passes. Don’t you want to be able to be the life of it? After all, we are all the guests of honor at our own private parties. Who are we to let ourselves down?

Come to think of it, who are we to begin with? Who are we at all?

It mattered not so much when the party was smaller and more manageable, when less miles behind us meant less responsibility and fewer rowdy partygoers within the walls of our skulls. It mattered less when our innocent consciousnesses were not as aware of realities such as mortality, hard lessons and the like.

Perhaps this is the point.

The slide was fun when new clothes were clean, without question. Even if your final destination for that particular trip ended with a mouthful of mud, the descent into anywhere brought with it hands-free excitement galore. Stains washed away much easier, fraying threads were simpler to mend and mud rinsed clean from mouths with a tall drink of reason.

Never has there been a guarantee that pleasure was the rule, though. How can there be appreciation for the sun without walking through the rain? Maybe these “new clothes” that I’m pondering are actually the wisdom, experience, humility and fortitude that can only come from several rides on the slide.

Maybe they’re already in my closet, or perhaps these "new clothes" aren't new at all. Or maybe - just maybe - these old, faded, worn-out clothes on my soul are the best fit. I’ve always been a wash-n-wear type anyway.

And maybe the slide isn’t something to be feared after all. Or maybe I’ve just gone too far down a metaphoric rabbit hole with this, and I should wrap it up.

So this is where I will end my self-indulgent journey - holes, dirt and all. And I will stop worrying so much about figurative threads and parties in our heads.

Waning days …

Navigating this maze …

Who leaves and who stays … 

The past haze, hair ablaze and all that craze … roaming thoughts on a windy but unseasonably warm December afternoon.

It’s on my list.