Patterns
Why is it that whenever I feel that I have a lot to say that has real meaning, it all disappears when I go to write it?
I guess I'll try to recapture it.
Things seem to be changing; but like when winter melts into spring and the ground warms, the chill wind still reminds you winter is not yet a distant memory.
I want to move on---like something stirring I need to leave.
It's all the same. This is not a new feeling, but it returns and fights to be realized until other needs and obligations bury it.
I'm tired of being the one who points things out only to be ignored, until the glaring flaws can't be ignored any longer. And when that happens, no one ever realizes that it was me who told them this would happen over and over agian.
At least this time, I think they finally get it. And things should be better. But I've thought that before and it wasn't so.
Either way, I do not want to deal with it anymore. I need my own life, a corner to call my own away from it all.
That is the only way I can figure out how to have my life.
As always, it will have to wait.
I guess I'll try to recapture it.
Things seem to be changing; but like when winter melts into spring and the ground warms, the chill wind still reminds you winter is not yet a distant memory.
I want to move on---like something stirring I need to leave.
It's all the same. This is not a new feeling, but it returns and fights to be realized until other needs and obligations bury it.
I'm tired of being the one who points things out only to be ignored, until the glaring flaws can't be ignored any longer. And when that happens, no one ever realizes that it was me who told them this would happen over and over agian.
At least this time, I think they finally get it. And things should be better. But I've thought that before and it wasn't so.
Either way, I do not want to deal with it anymore. I need my own life, a corner to call my own away from it all.
That is the only way I can figure out how to have my life.
As always, it will have to wait.