Today, I attempted to run away.
There was no wind to be felt as I walked: no cars were on the road driving past to produce any.
The long stretch of sidewalk I faced was empty, and the vacant, unkempt stores on either side of it contained no indication of recent life. Even the cracks in the concrete had no weeds sprouting forth from beneath them; they all had died long ago.

The air was hot and the world could be seen, but it made no sense, as the gray skies above revealed no sun.

I ambled onwards; my eyes would never stray from the path ahead, but would instead strain to see if the end of the road and the beginning of one new was near. I continued like this for hours; my breathing had become labored in the heat and sweat would trickle from my brow down the contours of my face when the beads got too big. Eventually, the last of the stores had been passed, and the markers on my left and my right had ceased to demand that those who walked forward turn back. I ignored the gradual barrenness as I progressed, and still the sidewalk continued on.

I never did reach the end of the path, though.
Instead, after my hundredth mile, I found myself at a crosswalk. At the other end of the crosswalk was a broken traffic light, from the pole of which hung, directly eye-level across from me, a small black box that illuminated the palm and outline of a five-fingered orange hand.

The light of the "Do Not Walk" sign never changed.
Still I'm there, waiting.

If people could speak to me and not expect an oral response in turn,
I'm almost certain I could spend the rest of my life as a mute

Queer, isn't it, that someone such as myself can be so fond of writing, can appreciate the merriment in laughter,

It's the extroverts in society that are rewarded for simply being the effortlessly open people they are; they receive the pay raise, the paramour, the invites to basketball games and late night drinks at local bars.

I, however, couldn't carry a conversation if it had two handles and Mike Tyson holding up the opposite end.

It seems these days that life must be discussed so that its beauty may be revealed.
I find that I don't have to, but that's what appears to be the problem, now, isn't it?

When encountering negativity, I find I still haven't mastered yet the task of thinking with a disciplined mind. Being capable of acknowledging this fact surely must be a small step towards so, though.

I wonder if a person such as myself, whose moral and social standards are self-set, has the right to point fingers and say an errand gone wrong is the fault of somebody else. Perhaps I don't; perhaps for such people, there is no such thing as "fault," but simply what is.

I've spent most of this week under a constant state of needless pressure that, I realize now, was not created at the fault of those around me, but rather, by my own hands. No fault can be placed upon others for my failure to breathe in deeply and accept that not all hard work will reap the benefits we seek, that not all things we wish to attain are attainable, and that not always our plans can be followed through to the end. This atypical air of impatience I've only just noticed I've had recently for everything, for everyone, I now believe has been nothing more than my ego's futile attempts to sustain this ignis fatuus of control and stability.. that and my lengthy absence from blogging, my lack of reflective thinking.

The loss of my hold on the patience I usually have at hand, as well as that frumpiness I'm not used to suppressing is, to me, just another demonstration, another reminder, of the impermanence of all things: things I forgot needed constant attention, and hopefully will handle better in the future.

Oh, the things one realizes when cooking rice in the kitchen.
I've still yet to find that peace with myself,
but at least, I think, I've found a tiny bit of it.