Sometimes I wish life came with a manual.


As of late, I've been feeling exceptionally misplaced, like I don't know what to do with myself anymore. And I wander my halls now lacking purpose, bare foot and anxious without reason. I have a thousand and one things to do but no courage, no motivation to touch even one of them with hands that have slept far too long.


I want to thumb my way through pages that were never strangers to me in the first place.


I am waiting at a window sill for a calling that will never come. It sits somewhere in the mountains and whispers the breeze at me when what I want is the hurricane.

My age brings me haughtiness in all the wrong places, it seems, so I stand on the balls of my feet and speak of wisdom and experience where there is none. I am a sky-scraper without a blue print, without foundation, and I refuse to ask for a contract.

So what do I do?

Skill makes me pretentious, and inactiveness makes me a caged canary in the shadows of golden eagles.


I want to be a somebody, if only a something, but we're both too stubborn to find each other, and I can only be so young for so long.

In the end, however, I'm still fighting a battle that has already been won.
And in the end, it is still a long, long road to victory.