I woke up in a haze, my life sitting before me as though it was not being lived.
What is this place that I call my conscience mind?
Where am I to go from here?
I have taken steps to formulate a conclusion to this life, though for now, I have no place to call home. I have never wanted so badly to see what is to come, for some days I do not feel like getting up from my bed...I do not feel as though I can go forward from here. This forthcoming hurt that I am always feeling is constant; it cannot be ignored, pushed aside, or tossed away, it seems. I am always facing toward the anger of the past, though I seem to take steps forward.
Hmm, such, I suppose, is the irony of this life.
The irony of my good fortune, as it would seem. I hold nothing in high esteem, these days.