Turning corners into dead ends

This fortress of books and rooms
surrounding me
forms a rather simple maze
For me to lose myself in,
if I so desire.
I cannot begin to process
all that is stuffed
into every available niche and corner.

It is my known universe.
My cluttered and 
difficult to negotiate
sanctuary.
Or so I think.

I walk from room to room,
picking up one thing here,
another there:
a book, a magazine,
a bag of chips,
a glass of juice.

I am no sooner settled in one place
than I must be up again
and back to where I just came from
moments earlier.
Round and round.
All the while,
silence.
Unless I introduce music
at an opportune time.

The central AC cuts off.
A breeze rustles the wind chimes.
My thoughts are stranded
in empty space.
I don’t seem to want
to pull together the loose ends.
To make sense of anything.

Isn’t that what I try to do
anytime I pick up something to read,
or download yet another article
on the Internet,
or wander the byways of cyberspace
aimlessly,
turning corners into dead ends?

This rather well describes how I feel this afternoon, 20 years after I wrote this poem. I also haven’t been feeling well since last night. These things will pass.