Again

I'm doing it again. It should be an easy thing to remember not to do. But every time I'm here, I forget, or subconsciously make a decision to try the old configuration again, even though it never works. Juggling carts and horses in my mind, I've put the wrong one first again. The same is true of eggs and baskets. And birds in hand. My imagination often seems to be its own entity, barely connected to me at all, and certainly having no relationship with logical thought. It sprints away from me toward a future that I see, but that may not be likely. It reads into words and gestures and intonations, parsing them on an impossibly analytical level. And as it happens, I know it's counterproductive. It invests my emotional energy in figments, in fragments of hope reborn, and lodged in the realm of the vaguely possible, but not bloody likely. What I want and what is possible are not always the same thing. But someday, I think, they may not be mutually exclusive either. And in this thought, and in this situation, the cart pulls the horse instead of the other way round.