It's too late, for, disappointment

Maybe part of the problem is that I am producing, not creating. Nine hours a day, four days a week, seemingly lost to the fornever.

I dream to dream, but only scream in my head with balled fists, standing by the window watching the wind blow.

I say to her, "Haha, no, how silly," forcing the side of my mouth to rise in faux amusement, dead eyes betraying me. Turning back to my desk, the swear words silent and fiery.

I listen and feel the worlds and the heroes and the lessons, but never see my own. I keep telling myself they will show when the time is right and then I can leave. They are still unseen.

I learn that these things will not change. That this is simply my life. The ebb and flow of someone who will always be fine and never be well.

- - -

Sometimes, like in this moment, I fall into a sense of overwhelmedness by the simple creativity I see in others, usually from the Interwebs, sometimes in an Instagram caption, other times by a walk down a city street. Somewhere, somehow I began longing to be a part of this crowd. But just as easily I find myself longing to be part of the ambitious crowd, or the leadership crowd, or the healthy crowd. Pulled in different directions, never settling into myself. Hurting. And going back for more until I know I will never be the one to overwhelm another.

This is what it's like. Will you know it any other way someday?