I'm at the threshold where love ceases and it pours into a 5-gallon trash bag that goes out next Wednesday. I get sick of craving the intellectual three-course meal. It's not in the family, the workplace, the social sphere; I've only found it in the recesses where you don't stare too long, including your cat's eyes. Puppies to pelicans, should you prefer.

Are we really listening anymore?
Are we really listening anymore?
Are we really listening anymore?

How do you lend your energy when it's been taken by those around you, including yourself. All of this work and preparation, and yet there is more to learn. I'm afraid to take action before significant thought because damage control and doing it "correct" the first time mean different contexts, to different folks at different strokes. Transience seams to see and hardly, at the same time. We scream to the high heavens to get what we need, only to receive it in a different skin, then we reject it. I fear myself because unchecked can be untamed. Destruction ensues where we create insurrections and, "I am bored" no longer proves ample justification.

I am haunted by every failure, at all times. It drives the progress but only as a ramification of anxious instability.
I suspect to feel the vibrance of life on a death bed, no sooner than later.