September

I haven't felt poetic lately. I'm unsure of whether this feeling pertains to the landscape, temperature, or even the amount of clouds loftily sitting in the sky. It's strange to think of what the mind is capable of accomplishing, creating, yet it needs just the correct amount of inspiration to proceed... progress... The life, short, beckons a man so peculiarly to be great, to be one so uniquely driven and successful in so many ways it becomes depressive and relentless... as the days build up, weeks build up, years build up. I try. I try not to think about it as often anymore. Whether one has acquired wealth, fame, knowledge -through experience, suffering, contemplation, fulfillment, well, I'm unsure of whether one genuinely wishes to fill themselves with a cup of their favorite drink. Imagine how that would taste near the very end. Our cups need always be unfilled, our minds and opinions, indefinitely open. It does not take long to form an opinion, an assumption, yet it takes years, decades even, to justify a choice, and even then, those are ultimately re-analyzed over again by our successors.