There's no believer like a convert, and no lover like the one who left you and came back.
Somebody must be reading my writing and I'm scared.
Roseanne Rosanna Danna's popular notion of "It's always something" is rather depressing for me. Can't it be alright sometimes? Even a lot of the time. That would be ok with me.
The psychiatrists call "racing thoughts" a symptom of mental breakdown. But is it? Depends how fast they're racing. Maybe they are just flowing in different directions sometimes. Catch them.
Relieving yourself of constipation and losing weight are very similar to putting thoughts on paper.
If I am in conflict, normally I will trust thought over feeling, but it is not always this way. You can overthink.
Putting thoughts into clear words, mindfulness, noticing that you are placing your glasses down in one particular spot, mentally repeating someone's name after you have been introduced, then surprising them an hour later when you call them by their name. Surprising yourself when you remember where you put your glasses. Mental mindfulness.
Recurring anxieties, who needs them. Why worry about the same things over and over and over again. Read. Change the channel.
I saw a psychiatrist recently. If she could've stopped staring away from me at the computer screen, she might've been capable of saying something really insightful or compassionate or even creative. I suspect she's a victim of mental constipation too and goes to sleep at night not knowing much about what she's thinking or feeling at all, waking up the next morning to block it all out again and perform her routines.
My mother was the biggest procrastinator on Earth. But I was very impulsive, so I guess I needed her. It seems to me her motto was "Take your time."
Inertia. Sitting, unable to stand. Standing, unable to sit. Inertia.
Why am I spilling my guts out? I don't know, it's my job. Byron Katie says that everybody has one. So like, when the cat's licking her fur, she's doing her job. Or when she sits, resembling a meatloaf (someone once said that). Or when crickets rub their little legs together on a spring night and make that pleasant sound, it's their job. Or the little Mexican guy inside the radiator banging with his little metal hammer when the heat comes up. That's his job.
