SUMMERTIME.

I've had the genuine "opportunity" to take a few weeks this vacation to sit and think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
And think.
Alright. Enough thinking.
My point is this: ---
Ugh. Why can't I just find the words to allow me to process that which is streaming through my head, screaming without invitation or welcoming, possessing my every thought, my every movement...
It's like waking terror. There are words seated just beyond my eyes that might become apparent if the right person would simply take a few minutes to search for them.
Search. It seems a ghastly concept, to search "through" someone to find that which you're looking for. Yet, as pretensious and unforgiving, it seems remotely seductive, destructively and undesirably satisfying.
Unhinged.
That was the only word I could think of to describe myself to a colleague when he asked me how I was feeling.
Unhinged: To remove from hinges.
To remove the hinges from.
To confuse; disrupt.
Informal. To derange; unbalance: He was unhinged by his wife's death.
"Aren't you always 'unhinged'? More often 'dehinged' is my guess."
"'Dehinged'? By what or whom?"
"By life."
It's too bad that 'dehinged' isn't a word. I fear I like the sound of it better.
Hinged: To be contingent on a single factor; depend.
Does my life hinge on one thing or another? I'd like to think so. Jumping from one instance to the next, hanging on whatever shed of diligence I still boast upon, clinging to existence itself.
"Maybe you should try to 'grease' yourself up so that you won't be 'dehinged' anymore."
"And how would I manage to do that?"
"Well, it's like WD-40. It'll keep you swinging."
So, I'm searching for my grease: My oily mixture that promises a squeak-free ride through wherever this and the following years take me.
It sounds so easy.
All of it seems like it should be so simplistic, so possible and real and eccentric, definable and actual.
But it doesn't look that way.