I feel as if my life is being driven by a concatenation of external influences that are cascading away from my sanity. My mind is a prisoner, and my home is a prison of my design. I’m but a derelict disguised in contentment. My navigational beacon crosses paths with joy and sorrow, and my dilapidated thought processes wither away. How I long for a salutation that doesn’t conjure fear and dismay. The enlightenment I so desperately need is nestled away in a remorseful yet locked room to which the key must be hand-crafted by the peace I can not find.
The Wandering-Mind 