Reflecting, reflecting, reflecting.

I am slowly grinding to a standstill.

I think I am getting tired of examining my life and that of others; of trying to explain motivations and secret motives and hopes and dreams and longings.

I am getting tired of looking at myself and looking at my life as detached as if I'd emptied the contents of my purse and were superciliously trying to inspect those items in their entirety, and the bottom for crumbs and stray hairs.

Sometimes I don't want to know why I do something.

Sometimes, I don't want to explain it to you either, or to anyone.

I want to live a life free of contemplation and examination and neurosis. I want to be like my cat, who happily licks her own asshole clean with nary a thought as to why this would be something that would make the rest of us throw up, were it our fate.

For the dog people, picture something similar but also involving the eating of shit– shit that isn't even yours to begin with.

I am tired of finding my motives.
I'm tired of psychoanalysis and tired of knowing that there is something wrong with me– because there is something majorly wrong with me and with my life.

It's nice to know that even when I ask for the oblivion of lack of introspection, the neuroses won't leave me alone.

You know, the "hot poker digging into my side" kind of nice.