Everywhere I turn I encounter folks who seem to have it figured out
(Whatever "it" exactly is)
They appear to know who they are
Oh how lovely that must feel
For I am just a wanderer
I am excellent at nothing but acceptable at most
And that is a confusing state to be in
For how, then, do you find something to be passionate about?
Those who seem so comfortable
Who seem to have it figured out
I envy them, and oh how I long, how I strive to be them
But the more desperately I clutch at the emptiness around me
The further I get from discovering my passion
And the further I sink into loneliness