sharp edge

like walking on glass, holding breath, intense concentration. it's a sad old tale of a grander song, more laughter and less worry. all the great expectation diminishes with the sharp edge of realities. I wonder sometimes if it's ever enough, and I suppose I won't know for many years to come. Who can say? There is no scale to measure life's achievement, or lack thereof. And so I'm left to my own devices - left to the madness of my mind. and what's to be made of such a thing? I suppose there isn't much, or I'd be farther ahead than behind from when I started. Perhaps I am ahead, but mostly it feels like a constant lag. Vocal cords slit, leaving a constant gasping - nothing much to say. Not lack of something to say, more so, lacking the ability. And what's the point if every moment isn't cherished? What is a life of constant bustle, no time to stop and enjoy? It's a damn shame, a waste. And so a resolve would be to walk slower, think simpler, enjoy more and laugh often - but some days (I'm content to say it's not most) it just seems like more energy than I can spare.