Sometimes I think a thought over a thousand and one times. I overthink it so thoroughly that it becomes gnashed, crushed into a cranial apple sauce that once resembled a concrete notion. Thoughts hate entering my head. I torture them.
Part of the problem is that I live by myself, and I haven’t really figured out how to do that yet. There’s just a lot of silence when you live by yourself. Too much silence. I like quiet time as much as the next guy, but I don’t like coming home at 5:30 p.m. to not say a single word until I see my co-workers the next morning.
I woke up today.
After I set my feet on the ground, I wondered, why do I get to place my feet on the ground? Why do I get to wake up, here, today? Why do I get to breathe, talk, eat, live?
But then I realized that these questions are silly, and that no amount of pondering or wondering will bring me closure. I called myself stupid, and got in the shower.
There’s something about a shower that makes life seem infinitely clear. The steady breath of the shower head, the warm water hitting your neck, and tiny droplets splitting into tinier droplets and finding other water to latch on to in a continuous cycle of division and cohesion. The shower is where the world’s problems are solved, I think.