Everything going on around him. Music, voices, un-ending. A brief lapse. A moment of clarity. Gone. All around him everything seems so real. And everything is. But he is unaware that he has created this himself. This is his world, and only his.
No ideas come to him. It is unfortunate, but a part of the process. Nature has a way with things. You flow with it, allow it to shape you as you shape it. A joint process. Everything interconnected.
Restless. There is no sleeping tonight. Bad habits. One of many. There is no goal to this piece. No direction. It simply is. It is the result of tiredness and the refusal to fall asleep. This is a conscious decision. And it makes no sense.
Days go by. Weeks. Months.
Stillness in the air. Nothing has changed.
Awaiting the big day where the game will be played.
Endless adoration. Fame. Triumph.
All imagination. A ploy.
A day that never comes.
Happiness is a delicate subject. Everyone wants it yet there seems to be a lot of misunderstanding around it. I don’t have the answers to happiness. But I have some ideas behind it. Use what you can and discard the rest. I am no guru.
There he sat wasting away. Nothing to do. Does it sound pretentious? Only time and reflection will tell. But rather it seems there is no choice. The possibilities are endless, yet the options are nonexistent. Stuck in limbo, there is nothing to contemplate. Where is the grand goal? The great perhaps? Lost and found. It is there, but not really. He knows his goal. Or so he thinks. But is that what he truly wants? Deep inside, the path he is taking, does it really resonate? No. There is the answer. So what does? What is the great perhaps?
This is for myself. I know that may sound selfish, but it’s true. I’m in this for myself, and I’m doing this for myself. I’m talking about writing right now, but you can generalize that to everything. All you really have is yourself.