a truce

I find myself making peace with the same things over and over again. A tepid peace, not a "forced reconciliation." My awareness that I've laid down my arms and called a truce always comes after the fact, as if there were some hidden negotiator that acted in my name while I continued to scream against the sky, wake up late, and resolve to rewrite the course of my life. This peace yields routine, a habit, a ritual that is often productive on paper but rarely so in the larger scheme of things. And that's when the wars begin anew. When I start to think, "what is all this even for?"

I have thought a great deal about people who appear to sabotage themselves and people who are experts at adaptation. I find myself outraged and insulted and envious of those who are masters of adaptation, who have made this tepid peace their home. When I think about them I direct my rage against them, all the while asking, "why do I do this? To them, to myself?" By persistently returning to the enigma that is the habit that allows us to go on, to be successful, to be productive, I cannot work or read or promote myself or play the adaptation game. But the adept adapters do not want to hear my war cries. They have made their peace. They are one with their negotiators, and I am left with the rubble.