We are but the weathermen of our own lives.
Based upon the analytical data we've gathered,
Feelings, thoughts, emotions, physical changes.
We can say that we are going to do something
And make plans for it, but our day to day changes us.
Like the weather, our lives evolve on their own, with minimal say.
Our surroundings move us, influences us, demanding that we change.
A little something each day, something not quite planned.
We are human though, and we adjust, or should.
Those who don't adapt are now weathering the rain without an umbrella.
After a while, we no longer look at the week long forecast
And just look at the day to day.
With an idea of where we want to be tomorrow.

What am I doing with my life.
Torn.
Between the life I have made for myself and the life of an immature man's dreams.
What have I done to myself? Surely this is not a healthy venture. Do I continue to follow the dreams, or do I lay down, content with the reality I live in?
They warn that the mind of sobriety is the clearest, but maybe that is a lie?
The inebriated mind seems to be the clearer of the two. Then again, it's the intoxicated one thinking right now.
It does so seem that the current mental state understands emotional matters just a smidge more.
Maybe just more in tune, no filter. No white noise interrupting.

The subtle undertones of the a.c. provide my only company this evening.
I've become accustomed to the white noise it provides.
In a life where everything is the sound of chaotic musings, uncertainties, and the untrusting capricious mind, I welcome the peace inducing thrum.

I hear many sounds early in the morning, the footsteps are my favourite, though. There is plenty a stride can tell you about a person. Always new people, and yet I look forward to the ones I know.
Day after day, the same people come and go like clockwork. There is a calm in the steps. Familiarity.

First, I hear the shuffling of an old man, walking with a purpose.
Starting off too fast, realizing too late, stopping abruptly. Shoes squeak, at the toes, to a stop.
Steel hitting the windowsill as he slams his mug down with defiance. He's made it through another night.

Next is the jangle of keys, striking the left leg. Each lumbering step forced. The steps of a man who doesn't want to be present and is readily willing to tell you so.

Anxiety fills the air, you can sense it. Thick and acrid. Accompanied by the scurrying footsteps of some one about to tattle. They falter a bit. Aware that she probably shouldn't say what she is about to, but the silver hair gets the best of her.

A few random feet I don't know, traffic can be heavy sometimes.

An angry heel strikes the ground, quickly followed by toes slapping the floor. The morning has won, she has lost. The sounds echo as she blows in, defeat trailing behind her. Already given up on anything positive for the day, her purse hits the entry way, her keys hit the desk then the floor, only souring her mood more. Huffing and puffing about how hard she's had it already. I just laugh and smile. I am not worried, her mood will progress.

More feet I don't know, but I will over time. Assuming they stay.

The last feet to arrive make very little sound, they don't have much to carry. Odd for such a precarious shamble. Though, it makes sense, I suppose. Although her pace is funny, there is a certainty in it. Bound and determined to make the best of the day. Try as she might, there's a will to move forward. Constantly on the brink of tripping over nothing, she remains upright.

Of all the noises, footsteps are my favourite. There is a rhythm, a pattern, a life story in these walks. Though they have changed slightly over time I still know them. Many of these steps I have heard for years. I believe I have grown quite fond of them.

Fear not my wrath, for it is brisk.
Fear my absolution, for it is everlasting.

Through the curtains shines the brightest light,
Inviting the day and banishing the night.
A brand new day, for a fresh new start.
Dark is the memory, but light is the heart.