Observance of my thoughts is the new norm, and many bloggers may soon get tired of me writing about it.

Throughout the day today as I did my Sunday routine of riding the mountain bike in my former hometown, I noticed the old habit still clenching.

I headed east this afternoon. The drive from home to the southwest side of the old city became very uncomfortable. It was a beautiful day: unusually deep-blue skies and a golden hue much like that of honeycomb. The winds were calm. The soothing atmosphere should have had me in the clouds, but something was nagging.

I was tired. Maybe the weary mind had its hand in the connection to the body? Before I even jumped on my bike after reaching the starting point, I wasn’t really willing to take on the mileage ahead. The head was full of thoughts about the negative in my life. As I took on the first mile and the oxygen began its work, I noticed what the earlier nagging had been within the trip east.

My whole life has been consumed with anxiety. I was always shot during my early and latter youth–those years containing the imperative, developmental stages. That distress was never dealt with properly. It was my parents who caused my earliest anxieties, so how could they help me deal with it? After assessing my lack of peace during the earlier trip–under the bluest of cherished skies, barely noticed, my thoughts then became as steady as the breaths within the ride. I was conscious, opposed to unconscious, when my peace had left just a short time earlier. My thoughts were consuming me in my unconscious state. During the beginning minutes of the ride, consciousness was restored.

Being unconscious, in this case, simply means that I was not observing the thoughts. I was not consciously aware of the anxiety simply being silly narratives in my head. What I did soon realize a few minutes down the cycling trail was how the old habit of creating something in my head is so easy for me to do. In the moment–any given moment in the thirty-five minute drive to my destination, nothing was wrong. Yet, the gripping residual habit of creating a problem was still holding tightly to my conditioned mind.

The afternoon was splendid. Miles were crossed. Thoughts were observed. The stories I was desperately trying to create for myself became no more than recognized lies within my electrochemically mediated processes. The current moment of the evening is just another time for me to share the power of thought recognition, and perhaps allow another reader to better understand why I often write about it.

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