Displeased with life and its mediocrity. Fearing this is all there is and that I’ve made it more than it’s supposed to be. Afraid that my mind is too much for it all. I’m bored. Tired. Not in the sense that things to do or getting sleep will fix. May be growing a little weary to the fact that there are some things you never may fully let go of. Kind of empty. But trying not to fill the space with whatever comes along. Trying to fill the missing link with normality, unoriginality, casualty, for the moment. Keeping everything so simple. But simple is not enough for me. Simple is the seat I sit on the edge of, waiting my turn for life, jumping at any hint of a shift. Discomfort in simplicity. Even my scattered thoughts are too incomplex.