Centripetal

Day, night, sun, moon, success, failure.
The cycle is inexorable, almost gravitational. Every victorious high is prelude to a plummet.

In celebrating the achievement of real progress, I have carelessly lost focus and given hard fought ground. I have whirled sharply about with a queasy centripetal tug, and have lost my bearings.
Straightening up seems to get harder and harder when I fail to fly right.

I am having trouble with the simplest of disciplines. Eating right, sleeping well, finishing work, these are somehow elusive acts. Every morning has welcomed me with a sparkling new opportunity, and by noon has bid farewell with a sardonic quip. Folly has become comfortable to the point where I am nervous when not shiftless, as if accomplishment should be precarious and worrisome.

I know what I need to do, but in this dizzy state I am swerving to hit landmines. I am looking for trouble and wallowing in disgust when it finds me. I have got to get off this carousel.

Here goes nothing.