The scales

I'm on the cusp of 36.
Born a cusp:  Libra nearly Scorpio. Born late nearly late for everything; deadlines, work, appointments. Forever on the cusp of something or another.
Born chasing my tail. Runner of circles, wizard of procrastination.
Typical Libra tipping the scales back and forth, back and forth until I'm crazy, sick or both.
I'm not where or whom I thought I'd be. I'm not truly sure I ever knew what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I'm still growing up. 36 yet juvenile in many ways, childlike in other aspects, with a good portion of old woman knit into one big, colorful, afghan.
Stubborn. Accepting.
Smart. Stupid.
Happy. Sad.
Proud. Ashamed.
Humanitarian. Hate-atarian.
Well rounded like a spinning top.
Just like we have no idea we are being born I too live life with no real idea of what's going on.
A mental drifter, a flighty piece of fabric who rides the ever-changing breeze, though other times a heavy bolder not easily moved.
I hate change but I crave adventure. I rarely leave my comfort zone but get angry at myself for it.
My soul split in two pieces.
Most of my DNA is irrational and impulsive with a never ending debate going on inside my head. My every move or lack thereof.
Is it calculated or miscalculated? What if calculators aren't permissible?
This life of mine is a loud, confusing, theme park; my mind is a tilt-a-whirl and my body is a bench; a resting place. A safe place. A place to hide out and chill.
Sometimes my bench is covered in bird shit and old popcorn, maybe even a little vomit. Other times I'm hosed down, primed and given a fresh coat of paint.
I sparkle. I shine I'm brand new again.
"Caution" wet paint. Don't sit.
The hit sun eventually dulls my shine along with a million asses who drop by and sit, NEVER thankful for resting on me.
That's the way it is.
Old. New.
Sick. Healthy.
Young. Old.
Wrong. Right.
Water. Fire.
Control. Rage.
Birth. Death. Re-birth.

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