On living

To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.
- Emily Dickenson

Is it then that I am clouding life with unnecessary distractions or that I'm just that startled by living? [a question evolving from the same source as the chicken/egg conundrum]. I don't feel startled, an emotion I equate with a distinct crispness, rather than the quake of a start, I feel more muddled and confused. What does it mean? Why is it all so fucking gray? Why can't a statement be held only accountable for the words that make it, or a fear remain simply such, over a manifested form of heightened insecurity? Instead I find a route around logic and mold it into something that I know is not truth. I sink with the absurdity I create. I'm so stupidly scared...of losing what?

[you can't spend your whole life worried.]

...control of the things that I never controlled. Yes, I want impossible guarantees and all answers to every question. I want something to be stable...to be able to rely on one thing. [I'd be appeased by one single constant.]