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I am a ship without a harbor. My soul drifts on breezes that visit for only a breath and then blow away, despite my efforts to keep it grounded. My dreams are concrete clouds that never get the chance to rise from the ground. They are chisled and perfect, with only one flaw, that they never come to be. I am young, I am old, two ages that live in conflict creating a chaos of feeling and thought that war with one another over every hurdle, every obstacle, every fork in the road. I grow weary, and tired, and wish that there were a pillow to lay my heart upon, so as to leave it behind and thus shield it from the inevitable, a life of pain and chaos. Knowing that such a pillow does not exist, I regard the future with solemnity, the present with malignment, and the past with regret. I can only hope that those who I have left behind as shells of themselves, having taken respite in their hearts, and then like a bandit, stolen their hearts, can forgive me of my thoughtless transactions. Until then, I wander the oceans, seeking a port, a harbor, to drop anchor.

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