And just going.
Still awake with the thought I could leave this instant
And perfect my way of living by starting over again.
But I leave things unfinished
I am “half done” with letters and books
And I would rather walk the equivalent of walking “there”
By walking back where I started.
Craving and not working on change
I’m sentenced to a life titled “to be unfinished”
Transcending further into the idea
That everything in colour is ordinary
Kind of gives one a different shade of sadness to get used to.