For the fourth month in a row, I feel dead on the inside. A little on the outside, too. I walk, I talk, I smile, I laugh, all the while either feeling overwhelmed or underwhelmed. Both ends of the spectrum have a hold on me, and moderation is a strange theme here. Do I falter? Yes, all the time. Stumble? Have I ever not? Going in any direction feels like I’m moving, but it’s the wind playing tricks on me. I’m on the spot, marking time, not even going nowhere fast, and my destination remains that; a destination. Breaking through, like massive wealth, feels like it is exclusive to the one percent. I shed a tear here and there, reminding myself that all I can do is stretch. Whether I grab and hold on to something is debatable, with the argument leaning heavily in favor of missing the grab and plummeting to the ground. Wrong there, surely, for I am on the ground, and the grab was an ascension attempt, One of many too numerous to count. Am I stricken with ill? Is there a hex on me, I wonder. If I take an actual bold step, will it push me yonder?