It's not as if I am a lost sheep searching for pasture. In order to be lost, one must have a point of reference to return to. Wandering in search of a moment's rest is a more accurate description of the feet that have been taking me onward. Weary feet in search of a quiet second to sit alone and be.

I've begun scrutinizing every day details, the way the sun casts shadows and the way my car sounds in the morning when I start it up. I've come to find that every day is the same. The sky sheds every morning a dewy cloak of stars in favour of pearly splendour. Every afternoon I hear leaves skitter about, obsolecense evident on every tiny membrane. People have the same conversations, and I muse about the same things. The monotony has worn me out, I believe.

What's sad, I suppose, is that every fiber of my being thrills out that this is the beautiful part of life. Sanctuary in a quiet, place filled with nothing more than a kinetic energy. But I don't focus nor trek well. My feet tire of wandering the same paths every single moment of every single day. Life is thrilling and bursting and filled with paroxysms of every emotion to be found.

It's like there's this little velvet curtain that slips over my eyes and makes them ineffectual. Hope's glimmer is masked and everything ever learned becomes forgotten so easily. And I thrust about in my small mind (I'll never claim to be a modern day Voltaire nor even minutely a Bach). I find nothing but empty, concrete curves of a never ending circle. Yet another to wear a path into daily.

Even now, I forget the point I was making. Something to do with the thrum of conversation in a high school's hallways and the pettiness of it all.

Simply, even the pettiness escapes me and I cannot find my answers as I know not even what my questions are.