First: This sensation. That you thought you were fine, nourished, well fed even. That there was nothing you wanted. And then someone waves this past you, this thing that you suddenly want in such a primal way, the thing that has been missing from your life. Oh, it's so exciting to want something, isn't it? Want want want because now that you've caught the scent, you know that want will be followed by have. And then suddenly it is taken from you. Mmmhmm and what now. Do you go back to wanting nothing, your smug contentment? Or do you reach out your hungry fingers and try to clutch at what is already out of your reach, just waiting for you to acknowledge your failure? Or do you, perhaps, try to build one of your own, a thing to satisfy the desire that is eating through your thoughts? This feeling. But I didn't want. But then, let's not forget, but then you did. 

Second: This sensation. The thing that you wanted and desired and begged. The round holes you hammered your square self into, to turn want into have by force of will. The fire that consumed you and you tried feeding it small branches, twigs, pinecones, anything, and everything you gave it sparked and ashed away and left you burning. Burning to the extent that you thought it was your natural state, the human condition. And then one morning to wake up with a cool pillow by your head, the fever gone. Clean. 

Third: Clearly you pour that which is full into that which is empty. Your hand wraps around the full vessel, prepared to tip the contents into the empty one; balance is important. Isn't it? Hesitating. Probably this is right. The sensation of being pretty sure, hovering in the space between decisions has never been your strong point, plunger of worlds, but here there is suddenly a moment to look around, so you do. 

Every time the wheel goes around it goes bigger, the view gets clearer. "Back when I was an asshole" we say, with the understanding that those days are gone, until the next time around when we see that our understanding was little more than smug assholery, and refer now to that understanding as "back when I was an asshole" until eventually on one turn of the wheel or another the dissonance of seeing ourselves as assholes twice, three times, three hundred wears even us down and we get it: we will always be verging on hubris after insight and the best thing is to keep it to ourselves. Even now I'm still speaking aloud so I will have to go around again and see it again and learn it again.

Sometimes therapy is like that episode of Star Trek or whatever, name your favorite time loop story, where you learn the same lesson and forget it and learn the same lesson and forget it, and Die Taschen, three turns should do it, I assure you the cards are sufficiently randomized, don't forget your booties. A second of stunning clarity, an understanding, a view of how it could be outside of the cave, the pit, a moment, then the realization that I've seen that before but when but how and if so why am I here still. Sometimes life is like that. 

Hovering between wanting to be kind, to stretch my arms out beyond my fingers, to hold everyone, to love until my heart breaks and then on the other hand wanting to get the oxygen mask firmly over my own mouth first, secure. Between apologizing for being too rich, too heavy, too intense and saying "well fuck them if they don't like cake" to the walls again. I wanted the taste you had of me to be sweet. I'm sorry I overwhelmed you. I'm sorry I spilled over and stained your clothes. I'm sorry. 

I am the most myself when I am alone, probably falling down an internet hole, just as in my youth I easily fell into books. The lilypad jumps of the internet are also pleasurable, maybe more than books even, scratching the curious itch. Second most, talking to people who share my greedy mind and give me the same feeling of learning and growth without making me feel like shit for having not known, before. I am blessed to have friends who think about things and take the time to share their thoughts and know how to challenge me to be my best self while understanding that I'm most likely only going to be better, never best.  Conventionally you would apply such a computation repeatedly a finite number of times, and then settle for the better, but still approximate, result. 

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning I am still so fully in my dreams that their vague images cloud the whole solitary day. Sometimes I wake up and I start talking to you before I even open my eyes. Sometimes you are there. When you're not, sometimes I write a long story about how that feels but usually I don't send it.