Every once in awhile I get this this nagging feel of uneasiness. Restlessness. Not being sure if I want to sit, stand, dance, walk, laugh, cry or sit like a blob and do nothing. Chances are, I'll do the later. Mostly because it's almost eleven at night and the town went to bed four hours ago. It isn't safe to go for a walk. A bear might eat me. Or a cougar. These aren't real fears. Just excuses.
These bouts of restlessness bring with it the ability to make me uncomfortable in my own skin. This happens once in awhile. I look in the mirror and am not too sure I'm pro the girl looking back at me. All I see are cons.
Don't get me wrong, I love myself, I'm relatively happy, life is fine, I'm okay and blah, blah, blah. Do not jump to any 'oh, she must be depressed' conclusions. Not everything is so dramatic. Actually, most things aren't.
Hormones. Can I blame them? It feels like a cop out.
Whenever these moods creep up on me, I end up disenchanted. With life, myself, writing, where I'm going to be in five years. The last year was a roller coaster ride, and not in the good way. The valleys out numbered the peaks about two to one. Some days, three to one. Then again, it's all perspective, isn't it? Through it all, I kept myself together. I reasoned. I kept a smile in place.
For the most part, I remain positive, looking to the bright side, being thankful, and walking around with the knowing smirk of a person who has most of it, if not it all, figured out. For the most part, see, that's the key. We cannot be positive, upbeat, happy, go-lucky, things are coming up roses people every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every...you get the point. It's just not humanly possible. Not without drugs, at least. And, frankly, it's annoying.
People are allowed to have bad days. Hell, people are allowed to have bad weeks. We are allowed to be in bad moods. Just don't let it take control and consume your whole being and smash apart your common sense or rationalization because...well, because that's bad. But it's almost as though, on my path to finding love and light and happiness, I forgot that there are downs. Oops.
In the end, the simple truth is, I feel sloth-like. And there is nothing wrong with a sloth. Actually, on any normal day, I'd embrace being sloth-like. I mean, those guys get to eat and sleep a lot, like up to twenty hours a day. Not to mention they only have three toes and are the slowest moving creatures on earth, so slow and sedentary algae actually grows on their fur. I mean, come on. How cool are these mammals.
Now I feel bad for comparing myself to these beings in a negative fashion.
The anxiousness is worse than thinking I look terrible or being agitated with everything I come in contact with. Sitting, bouncing my knee, and trying to think of a way to bring myself out of this state is most frustrating. Nothing really helps. Except, sleep. (See, sloth-like) And maybe cake. It's touch and go in these scenarios because I might end up feel like an even chubbier bunny after divulging in a cakey goodness with icing and some sort of jammy filling.
That said, I haven't had cake in like two months.
Oh, I think I just figured out what the problem is.
And here's a baby sloth, just because: