Why can I not get on my mat these days?

Because I don’t really want to. Because when I achieve a certain degree of orderliness in my life, I just have to kick over the wastepaper basket. The same goes for eating properly. It’s OK for a bit, but then I start to feel trapped. The situation is too claustrophobic. I have to erupt out of the structure, sending busted plywood and fat splinters flying. I have to let chaos in. There’s something so fundamental for me in this dynamic. It’s like a creative spring, an engine. But at the same time it’s also a stalemate. I’m a hung parliament, 50 per cent of the electorate gunning for consistent self-discipline, 50 per cent seeding anarchy. The result is that I'm like a two-year-old who keeps building the tower and then knocking it down again.