fucking clouds

There are beggars wandering outside the walls
of a massive stone labyrinth, begging for a spot
of polished, gleaming steel, something to gain them
entrance into the high stone walls
everyone wants a chance to lose themselves
within the confines of cold and old and unfeeling
everyone is pleading for an opportunity
to fall to the pits at the edge of reason and
die in some lonely alcove carved from the most
uncaring of materials.

I am, in retrospect, getting a little bit impatient with this whole process. But I had that feeling, twisting in the wind in the hollows of my guts, that it wasn't supposed to be this way. I was told, I suppose, in the ways this lovely little universe is best at, that things would change quickly, as they have a habit of doing. I know what I need right now, what would be better than anything else, and that girl simply didn't have it. She was, is, simply a manifestation of my escapist side, a creature seemingly composed entirely of my more immature outbursts of expression and desire and thought. I'm sick of searching, but it feels right now like anyplace I look will only generate more negative results.

I need time, time to calm down, stop whining about what can't be affected, and figure this shit out.