The long breath

My life feels as if it runs in cycles, like growth rings on a tree, the flowing tides, or recurrent wind patterns on Jupiter. Several periods of calm and reasonable stability are broken up by brief and traumatic events. In the aftermath of reaching these event horizons, while the particles are still attempting to re-conform to the normal laws of physics, strange new interactions form between them. The emotional effects of which are not-unlike the tendrils of vines, lashing out and struggling to twine themselves to something substantial.

Calm >> buildup >> implosion >> particle spray >> reformation >> repeat

I long for a time when the cycle will be broken; a time when the long breath between reformation and buildup cools, and solidifies, into something impervious.

I'm currently resting at the gray area between that chaotic particle dispersion and the point at which things start to rebuild. I actually feel like the last calm period was significantly shorter than routine, in connection the implosion was less traumatic, but the particles were very energetic however. They were far-flung. I wonder if there is a critical distance, at which point, they will no longer interact at all? The last event occurred on a more mental plane, whereas the previous two encompassed every aspect of my life.

I sit on the threshold. The tendrils have formed and search frantically. Whether those catch-holds they find are grounded and firm of foundation are another story, and a question I don't really wish to delve into. The slow crystallization of things has begun. I wonder what the surface will look like? I wonder more what chemicals will be able to pass into it's pores; what poisons might slowly seep into the framework and corrode the delicate balance from within.

I find that the older I get, the more I reflect on the process. This doesn't mean it gives me any ability to alter course or redirect as it occurs. The knowledge and understanding of the process really only seems to confound and make it that much worse. Frustration, that I can't actually implement some effective strategy to change things, eats at my soul; a grub chewing on the heartwood of a tree. What will happen when the flow of vital sap is severed from the crown, I wonder? Maybe those vines will cease to form, and I'll simply revel in the empty entropy...