Another Day With No Dollars...
Sitting solemnly, converged deeply within a cacophonous sea of thought, I continuously find myself ruminating on the most basic facets of my consistently, inexplicably boring existence. I don't know why I fixate my mental prowess on such mundane, uninteresting issues as to why things the way they are right now, expending innumerable amounts of energy with aplomb. It does me no good to rummage through the rubble of debris that are my make-shift thoughts.
Regardless, I continue to do so. I inextricably find these thoughts indelibly pressed onto my conscious like blood settled firmly into a starkly white cotton tee. Daily they sift upward through the dense, vastly expanse terrain of my psyche, perching atop it's base with ease, looking me dead in the face as if it were a bully beckoning my obstinance toward it's existence, baiting me into a trap. In many ways it's cyclical: I constantly find myself turning over the same leafs, looking for answers that aren't there; that may have no actual meaning even if they are excavated from the chasm of knowledge currently unbeknownst to myself.
Conversely, I should take the compendium of energy I disburse daily and attempt to cause a shift in my life, shake things up in a certain way, welcoming, something, anything bearing no semblance to the monotony that are my days. I would be best serve to focus on progressive ideas and goals that I have longed to achieve, rather than focus intricately on my current disposition and that immense disdain I hold for it. I no longer care to subject myself to this utterly useless connection I share with such minimal enlightenment as my place of occupation or with the people I constantly find myself surrounded by. Instead, I should quest for that thirst I await perpetually. The one I yearn for fervently. The one I want dearly. However, I don't expect it come to fruition anytime soon.
Regardless, I continue to do so. I inextricably find these thoughts indelibly pressed onto my conscious like blood settled firmly into a starkly white cotton tee. Daily they sift upward through the dense, vastly expanse terrain of my psyche, perching atop it's base with ease, looking me dead in the face as if it were a bully beckoning my obstinance toward it's existence, baiting me into a trap. In many ways it's cyclical: I constantly find myself turning over the same leafs, looking for answers that aren't there; that may have no actual meaning even if they are excavated from the chasm of knowledge currently unbeknownst to myself.
Conversely, I should take the compendium of energy I disburse daily and attempt to cause a shift in my life, shake things up in a certain way, welcoming, something, anything bearing no semblance to the monotony that are my days. I would be best serve to focus on progressive ideas and goals that I have longed to achieve, rather than focus intricately on my current disposition and that immense disdain I hold for it. I no longer care to subject myself to this utterly useless connection I share with such minimal enlightenment as my place of occupation or with the people I constantly find myself surrounded by. Instead, I should quest for that thirst I await perpetually. The one I yearn for fervently. The one I want dearly. However, I don't expect it come to fruition anytime soon.