I'm

trying hard to keep my mind even as it floats through my grasp and into places where I can't keep it anymore.
Spitefully, it pushes. It forces itself into dark rooms and corners, secretly loving the lost sense of sight.
Had I stayed in the darkness of the cave, I would have never discovered the darkness of the day.
I wonder which would have been better.
And by "better" I mean easier.
Spite creeps up on me every time and asks me whether I really want what I think I want.
Or do I want what I think I don't?
It fogs the windows and creates waves in the atmosphere, hot, humid and invisible, skewing perceptions and receptions, spotlighting my imperfections.
As clear as my wants and needs seem to me in the morning, by noon clouds hit and I'm a goner without my glasses.