I would be a great artist
If only i could sit still,
If only i could give myself permission to stop,
To pause long enough to create
Without this rush
Without this never ending, unceasing drive
To be finished already
To be on to the next thing...
This feeling
That im already too late
For action
For life
For love
For now....
Im too late for now!
****
Stuck on this merry go round
Which is neither merry
Nor travelling towards any destination
Except my inevitable death...
I consume my life with things not done
With what I should be doing but am not...
In the minutie of banall tasks
While the joy, light and colour of my life remains unpainted.
Just melancoly ideas
On a canvas strewn with trivialities....
Maybe this is my life?
The sum of these random scrawls which somehow spells the shadow of the word "trauma".
I sit in a pool of my own dissatisfaction
Waiting for... for what?
For better days?
For salvation?
To be rescued?
As i push away those who may help...
Such a strange thing
Existance
Life
Hope....