#it is the only word that fits

Flibbering

I worry that I spend too much thinking about all of this. That I’m going to suddenly run out of things to think about, that the mystery will finally be exhausted, and I’ll just be left in a room with nothing but my finger between my lips, flibbering like a loon as I look around in confusion. 

I worry that there’s something lost in the exploration, that gut instinct and intuition are getting drowned out by explanation and logic. That what so many seem to take for a Machiavellian level of planning and strategy is just me trying to figure out how this all works, rather than just working it. 

I worry that my penchant for control is too overarching, and I’ve lost the ability to just let go and enjoy myself, that everything has to be constructed  and in that construction become an artifice. That I turn you into the same, when it’s the very fact that you’re natural and spontaneous that draws me towards you. 

I worry that, above all, my head is leading, dragging my lifeless heart along on a piece of string, the poor muscle beaten bloody and swollen by repeated inspection and analysis. That I’ve turned my emotions into an autopsy when all I ever wanted to do was find out why they worked. 

I worry that I’ll never know, and will forever be ruled by subconscious and id alike. That somehow desire won’t transform into reality, and I’ll be stuck with the fact that I am flesh and bone, as well as thought and imagination. 

And I worry that, in the realisation that all this worrying is getting in the way of all this living, that I’ll forget to worry, and forget to push myself towards whatever it is I’m headed at. That I’ll lose my impetus halfway to the finish line, and stand there on the empty road, without even the impulse to hold my finger over my lips and flibber away.