Often times, I carry words about in my head; handling them gently, smoothing out the edges, letting them rotate in my hands over and over until they wash away, as if rocks turned gradually to sand. I lose them slowly and then all at once, in a moment no longer able to grasp what felt so concrete a minute before. It's as if they evade me, ducking away and spinning just beyond my grasp, though my fingers stretch to hold them. Ah! There they go, I catch myself thinking, as the words go in and out of consciousness. I do not think to chase them. They'll come back - I believe, perhaps naively - if they need to. A lot of things are relegated to this dusty corner of my decision making - that place that laughs nonchalantly and thinks it best not to exert yourself at all if you can possibly avoid it. Stifle the desire to run screaming like a mad person towards the things you want; turn away from hurtling towards potential danger that may end in reward. It is safe, my conniving brain says, to stay right where I can see you. I scold myself, as a mother scolds a child, shooing away the possibility of adventure or frivolity. There is no time for that today, I say, wagging a finger at my childish self; there is only time for the things you already know.