Tracing circles in the sand

I have been trying this “new” method of living, but no one said it was going to be easy. I say “new” because the generation raised before mine (born in ’63 people) was never taught to pursue their wildest dreams or that they could be anyone they wanted to be. My parents worked really hard for everything they had and still have, but did they ever seem happy? I am unsure whether that ever was a main goal or pursuit in their lives minus the wispy ideas of youth. They wanted to get by, making a living, and leave something behind for whoever was left when they passed. We, as in all people 0 to 30 years old, now (2017) have such an excruciating number of possibilities that we are shamed and guilt-ridden for settling into a life of mediocrity. There are still those who live in ignorant bliss of this shame, and they get by without ever feeling the need to make themselves better or strive for more. For the rest of us, we long for a vibrant, electric life full of curiosity and adventure. Alas, we are often unsatisfied.We can feel the emptiness in regular moments or in the middle of the night waking up out of breath, chasing after things we may never reach.
The past few days have been rough. I feel beaten down and low, exhausted, and restless. My emotions have not been this turbulent in a few weeks, and there is a distance between my mind and the storm. I can see all the negative thoughts and pain swirling around in indigo and charcoal circles as I wait for the winds to settle and the howling to end. The detachment maintains, and I drift off into deeper things. Memories that I attempted to shove into too small of a box explode out like confetti and flood my head completely.

I try to assess my relationships now based mainly on actions (thank you, 2012), but what happens when there is only talk? When distance inhibits action, where should my faith lie? The past proves my doubts, and the present still is a hollow void in parts where I  want to and should be full of love and hope. What could the future possibly hold when there is nothing to hold on to? How many promises make it real enough?
All of this doesn’t seem like enough to create a storm, and yet, here I am in the lifeboat, paddling with my hands to go anywhere else.

My mind is weak, but no one said it was going to be easy.

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