"No more moving!"

Impossible. I have to be moving. If I'm not, then I'm sick or dead. I want to stop moving though. I want to let the waters calm so the mud settles and I can see the bottom sand. The ripples underneath the waves. There is a motor in me that won't quit. It sends steam up my throat to fire my brain engine. The pressure behind my eyes forces them to dart about, looking for relief.

My body is failing. The joints are coming unhinged. The outer layers are peeling off. Things are erupting out. The container is coming apart, unable to hold all of me together anymore.

Calm. Calm. I pray for calm. Maybe not pray. To pray would be to open myself up to the outside. That's something I really can't do. The world is not ready. The ooze inside is not a pretty site.

I see the collections of my life surrounding me and wonder if I'm connected to these things, or will they just blow away with the next breeze. What will be left when all the outer layers have been stripped away. What will be at the core? Is there one? (I'm devolved into the question game again.)

I ask the universe (or myself) to guide me.