Tick Tock Through With That

Sometimes dreams are just so large, and instead of getting out there into the vast unknown, into the unrealized, I feel trapped in the soup of reality, a fog that seems to hang out about my mind, thick haze that slows my body down. Confined to a corporeal shell for eighty good years, twenty-two already used. Why the despair? Why such despair and painful longing? Longing that distracts from the present. What if reality and dream were interwoven instead of separate? What if I'm missing out on something right under my nose? Perhaps not what if, but what? For certainly there's a thing in front of me. Happening around me. Juggling relationship, juggling loneliness, a sense of something more, feelings of despair intermingled with joy and hope. Such a roller coaster ride of paint strewn across the canvas. Mixed metaphors aside. Getting inspired, that comes easy, and then it stagnates. Maybe I've run for too long. What am I saying? I've barely even run, and yet it feels so far. My heart is such a twisted thing, filled with longing. Maybe the longing is the hard bit. Maybe the dreams are the hard bit. Everyone wants to turn back the clock, change who we become, when every second is working out who we are becoming for the next. Such a stacked number of events and in-between workings. How are we supposed to know what to be? Who to be? How do we decide what is right and what is wrong? How do we burn one second and the next become so cold? The feeling maybe I've had it all wrong. Maybe we've really got to chase those dreams. Chase down those lies that well up and kill them dead. The vast expanse opens, the galaxy split apart, stars torn from the sky, the earth beneath my feet crumbled. Loneliness is such an odd thing to feel. Even surrounded by those I love, even in the midst of the joy and love, there's some kind of sadness. What is this sadness, this weight that pulls me down? Loss of pleasure in the things that once brought joy. Food that turns to ash in the mouth, stories that lose meaning before the end of the tale. How can we live in such pain? Well, we do. We keep pushing. Even if we'd rather be dead. Funny how you don't know how much you want to be alive until you want to be dead. So much wasted time, wasted breath, wasted hours and seconds. What truly matters? Friends? Family? Relationships? The feel of the sun on our skin? Clouds moving quickly over the horizon? Winds whisper on the raised hair of our arms? Making rent? Working to live. Traveling? Exploring? It's all so damned mundane. They say adventure isn't real anymore. It can't be. It just can't be. I refuse to live in a world where everything is day in and day out. I have to get out. Have to get inspired. Have to inspire others. Change the way they think. Change the way I think. Feel again. Really feel. So over the tortured artist thing. So over feeling everything to the nth degree, not being able to sort it out. Instead becoming a jumbled mess of misunderstanding, no sense to be made of all the live wires crossing. What is the tick? The push. I need to find my push. My tick. I lost it somewhere along the road. Lost my way. I sure as hell can't show anyone their way if I've got no idea what my own is.