Sometimes I feel that I need to move on, so I pack a bag and move on

I was in the middle of a post about suicide, but I confess I don't have the energy to complete it. I've been on the move all day and my mind is as worn as the tennis ball I found fossilized in a January snowbank. So, instead of something deeply philosophical, you're getting fluff. Nothing wrong with fluff; it goes well with peanut butter, I'm told.

Years ago, when I was as fresh and innocent as a lamb napping in a flower bed, I set foot on the spiritual path. I got my feet wet with metaphysics culled mostly from New Age texts. I went beyond the dopey-eyed mysticism of New Age and here I am, years later, getting my fucking ass kicked by Buddhism. I'm ready for it now; it wouldn't have had much appeal for me in my twenties. After all, there's not a lot of talk in Buddhism about channeled tutorials from disembodied spirits, rebirthing in a tub, or treks into the astral realm. I have read that the Buddha was pretty good at bending spoons with his mind. So there's that.

It's a hard path, this, but it can't be skirted around; it has to be experienced fully. And it's got balls, which I dig. I've always had some fight in me despite your opinion that I'm even softer than this guy:

The meat of all this is difficult for me to articulate. Just know that all my bullshit has been on display, naked and running out of places to hide. It's been quite a scene, man. I used to go looking for salamanders under rocks. The way they, and every other living thing among them, would panic at the intrusion, at being exposed so suddenly and brutally, is about how I'd describe the actions of my bullshit. No place to hide, you neurotic scallywags!

My days have generally gone like this: feel lousy, find a way to feel better, feel lousy, find a way to feel better, feel like choking the world by its asshole neck, find a way to feel better, a flurry of Lord, why have you forsaken me!? emissions, feel better and go to bed on a high note, like a champ. I've had spells of despair and catered to some unflattering thoughts, but  it can't be said that I think I have less use than a compost heap at the bottom of a lake (Huh? Remember, I'm tired). In other words, I know my worth and the negativity that has arisen is fleeting. Anyway, some pussy would help in the alleviation department. (Okay, really dude: you're unraveling, despite the urgent verisimilitude of your claim. My apologies, readers).

Evidently, I'm withering. Time to wrap this up before my tongue loosens even more and we find ourselves in the wholly immoral lower depths of ribaldry. I'll try to complete some music. I've been pleased with the new songs I've been working on. Later, I'll tenderly ruminate on the love of a woman (a sustained, gentle exhale). And then I'll sleep.

G'night, rascals. I see more and more that we are one and the same.