It’s afternoon,
And my words are weighted by hours of thought.
Thought that follows a well-worn path,
Like the deepening rut made by spinning the rear tires a car in stuck mud.

The direction of thought is not as much determined by reality or its validity,
as by its habit.
If I’m stuck,
I always have the tow truck of acceptance here to extricate me.

Sometimes a little reserved, skilled, careful spinning and rocking,
Back and forth, will loose me easily enough.
But too much, originating from frantic frustration,
Will burn my mind and ruin my tires.

Freeing myself involves a delicate balance,
Between thought, action, and acceptance.
Sometimes the trap is already secure,
And no thought or action will move me but patient waiting for help.