I have thought long and hard,
yet my mind is still a blur.

Delusion seems to be more favorable still.

I look for the line, the notches on the sides, the tapering so it will fit;
it isn't there, no it does not exist.

Where is my head, who is this?
What am I to dream idly while life becomes hell, and the time drains from my reservoir?
When did I forget that if you don't occasionally fan the flames they reduce to nothing but embers?

Every morning I stare at my ceiling, squinting, wishing I could make the bumps become more than meaningless fuzzy pictures that disperse the moment I allow my eyes to return to norm.  Why does it anger me so that they are just splotches of paint and plaster? What about this turns my mood so instantly?  What is it inside me that is forgotten so that I no longer can take these tiny splatters and recount an endless history of a small world that knows no end? Of battles, and loves, events happening continuously?  

Why have I become so dull?
To what end is a brain if it is left with no imagination?
To what end is a heart if it is left with no future?

I ask this now, my soul, what is it for?

I survive in an endless controversy between what is and what I thought should be.
I can't seem to let go of what I can not change.

Even now, as I write these words, they are bare, boring, cold ashes that once could have burned.