I have come to the conclusion that I fire on six cylinders.
The issue is that I am an eight cylinder man.
I can’t remember the last time I was firing on all of them.
They aren’t knocking yet, but it’s just a matter of time. There’s a lot of miles, hard ones, on the odometer.
It’s a wonder six are still firing. It makes it rather miraculous that I can make it through the day, let alone accomplish anything.
It seems I am pulling off on the side of the road to doze more often now. My mind knows where to go. I am just so tired and it takes so much fuel to figure out how to get there.
Others race by. Their exhaust exhausts me. Death is the end to this race. Why try to get there quicker?
Elegiac grips me until my mind spins.
Lethargy holds me down.
I am captured between the two, racing, yet going nowhere.
I am a six cylinder body with an eight cylinder mind.
Come close and you will catch the faint scent of burnt oil.