This hilly landscape has its ups and downs just like every fleeting thought and idea we've ever had. Every rainy Sunday, and every weekend-killing Monday, followed by the rest of the days that race back and forth from wonderful to depressing like a never-ending game of pickle in the midst of a warm winter day where that fragment of hope for spring is shattered by the weight of the suddenly falling flakes, and the frozen ground beneath your feet remains hard and unforgiving, too frozen over to let the beckoning hands of brighter days break through the surface. But the difference between you and I is that I'll drop to my knees and claw at the ground, I'll embrace it with the intention to bring it warmth, to soften the shell that these hands beneath the earth are struggling to push through.
...And you'll go back inside. Back to your books and your candles and your false hopes, where the ghosts of inactivity and broken spirits thrive within your walls.  
The bags under my eyes are distant, rolling plains, shaped by tough times and happy accidents. I wander  aimlessly, I hope and dream and fall down five hundred times a day, just to get back up and wipe the dirt off my knees and continue finding myself in the midst of absolutely nothing.
To put it simply, we are not the same.