A manifest of laziness. As usual.

Continuity isn’t my style. Even when I finally goad myself to action, my mind has skipped several beats ahead to settle on something else. Something new. Exciting. There is a load of adrenalin in the pursuit of the novel. The tried and tested, however delightful in first savouring, rarely pulls me back with the same affection.

For a 70 kilo burly frame, my spirit moves astonishingly quickly.

Restless.

Always on the journey. Sorely tempted to never stop. Never return.

Some things I begin slowly, with endless calculative thought, like this blog. I mulled and mulled, chewed, deliberated, hemmed, hawed, the least frentic to reach a conclusion. Then one fine moment it happened. Out of the blue, when I was least expecting to, the impulse tip-toed upon me and flooded the reserves away.

This has nothing to do with the hours I wasted mulling chewing deliberating hemming hawing, mind; those inconclusive tinkering of the brain were for the pure pleasure of keeping the neurons ship-shape. They rarely mean anything, never constructively leading me anywhere. In the case of whether I should at all write on an open source medium, all that fencing was a mere sham, a bliss bereft of end, an end unto itself.

For want of a better player, my brain duels with itself. Left, right, forward, back, it arranges sides in a jiffy, hovers over the object of study and instantly begins dissection, volleying reasons back and forth, demanding validations, observable facts, spinning logical path-webs.

Some things I begin fast. Jump. More often than not the pool turns dried out. My myopic vision observes this only in the last minute. Nevertheless, I leap, find my bearing, gather myself into a lotus pose and beam smilingly up at the world, from the bottom of that vacant pool, expecting god-knows-what to happen next.

Nothing does, more often than not.

So I take the next most plausible action.

Get up. Brush my bum and... move.