Counting sheep

I want, I want, I want.

All I really want is to grow, to stretch; to be bigger, be better, richer, richest, older, wiser, braver. Most successful. I lust. Never be still. Until we arrive at the stars. Go on. Dare to dream. For you. For us. For you. I sacrifice. The here, the now.

To Chase it, chase it, chase it.

Impatience pulsates. Savouring my own flesh as time drifts. Ripping. The pain threshold of boredom stings. Thumping. Steady, reliable tick. Never fast enough. I run into the wind. Always something just over the horizon. Keep going. Counting down to greatness. To death. Never miss a beat.

I am, I am, I am.

The sum of the mistakes I’ve made. To success. Warped rite of passage. I lie down to be pecked by vultures. Again and again. To accumulate high end mediocracy. Yet falling short. Now bearing these scars. Regrets from my travels anchor me tight; an interpretation of how these others look down. Still stops the move forward. Upwards. Debilitated. Because of how I think things ought to be. How lowly they see me.

Why me, why me, why me.

So I make a promise to you, my little ones. I do. To change. Let’s live your lives. Lean in. Light a campfire. Not wish them away. Never again. To dream of the sun on my back. In exotic locales. Baking. No matter how weak or selfish I am. Or can be. There’s time enough. To fly. For us. For you. For we.

Just To Be. 

To be happy, be happy, be happy.

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