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This is exactly what I wanted. Me, a laptop, and two warm, furry creatures twitching with softness and sleep on the landscape of our large bed. I could have found a coffee shop somewhere, but leave it to working in one for seven years to kill that impulse. No. This is much better. Much quieter. An atmosphere which will hopefully be still enough to not frighten the Thoughts. Lord knows I have not called them out enough to acclimate them to the pressures of being ordered on a page. So naturally, they scatter.

So naturally, they're sluggish.

It is because they are sluggish, these thoughts of mine, that I swallow them inside where they wont slow me down. Where they wont resist the winds that control my life. Because, obviously, I have to go where these winds are taking me, and I can't waist any time to see what the Thoughts have to say about any of it.

The thing about these Thoughts is that...they get heavy. And they get...bulky. And then they're. . . s t u c k. You'd think they'd be easier to ignore when they get stuck. At that point, they're not even trying to get out. And it's true, you do start to forget about them after a while. You go on relying on your ANS to do the work of putting the next brick down for you to step on and move forward. And true to it's name, it does this automatically, lighting quick, and systematically so that the path is set at least a half dozen steps ahead of you. Just don't look up. You don't have time. You have to keep up. One foot, then the other, fast, or the purpose that promises to dangle at the end of that path will simply get away from you.

And then the symptoms begin...