A Dog and his Vomit

I have been thinking crazy thoughts. Thoughts of will and rage; love and blindness; of evolution, revolution, degeneration and redemption. I’ve thought of pride and then the fall, crime and punishment, life and then death. I’ve thought of misery and Misirlou. I’ve thought about fate and I’ve thought about God. Mostly, I’ve thought about myself.

And in thinking about myself I’ve had two realizations:

1.) I am an addict.

I’m addicted to the edge, to the next day, to the unwritten life. I’m addicted to the hunt, to the chase, to the uncertain end. I’m in love with a cruel mistress and her name is the blank page and I can’t help myself. She beckons with her sultry sway and seductive call; a siren waiting to sink me. She’s always there when I need her; waiting to use me as much as I use her. I can never say “no” to her because I never want to. And I’m left to wonder if it’s better to fight the urge or to try to fill the void.

A void that deep will make anyone a miserable son of a bitch, which leads me to my second revelation:

2.) I am a dog.

And a dog will always return to his vomit. Like the fool I am I want to return to my folly. Given the options, it might be the best one. We live in a world that’s constantly trying to kill us all, but that’s not called “insanity” that’s called “life.” So if I do go back to that place then logic states that I deal with it the same way humakind has dealt with the world: try to conquer it before it kills me.

Maybe the should have killed me the first time because they've only made me stronger. Or angrier. Or dumber. Or all of the above. And now the real dilemma: should I be miserable fighting my way through the mess or miserable wishing I was?

Any guesses on what happens next?