Sometimes I am the proverbial ostrich which sticks its head in the sand and feels smug that no one can see it. It amazes me how often I defy the ceiling effect of idiocy, reaching newer heights each time, and chuckle quietly about continual attempts to outdo my own records of bad decisions and self-delusions.
I get into these dangerous moods, battling an impulsiveness that provokes me to do things that I would surely regret. I contemplate giving meditation a chance. But then I am too young to visualize a field of daisies or the calming aura of self-styled gurus with creepy smiles to rein in my mind. I have a few more restless years in me.
It might not always be wise, but I am used to speaking out what is on my mind. So it is positively a torture when I have to give consequences a thought and settle for writing letters that would never leave the drafts folder. Or keep my face composed not to betray the slightest bit of emotion. Or resist the urge to kick something really hard. Or plaster a huge grin on my face and listen to a couple so in love it is almost nauseating. Or overlook an inner void. Or quietly allow sleep to overpower me and wake up to another day.