On a sea of infinite possibilities.

Like a blank page.

It always catches my breath.

So much is possible.

So much to gain.

So much to lose.

It is like drifting.

My feet no longer firm or flat against the ground.

I like it. Usually. It is pleasant. Usually.

I like to pretend I have much to offer.

It's nice to think about.

The truth is I am far too good at drifting.

I drift from one day to the next.

From one assignment to the next.

From one bus stop to the next.

From one conversation to the next.

Opinions? Do I have any? Sometimes I am not sure.

Conversations about views on socialism baffle me.

I am not political enough.

I am not driven enough.

I am not enraged.

I am not thriving.

I am a drifter.

I know where I stand- beneath a window. A window that is so picturesque it makes my head spin. And yet I seem to shrink. To cower beneath it.

Is it fear?

I don't feel afraid.

Is it sheer laziness?

Perhaps.

The vastness of this life astounds me.

Like lying in the cool grass at ten o'clock at night. Feeling the weight of the darkened sky pressing in on me. It wasn't depressing. It was just being.

In truth:

Our insignificance is so signficant.

Do not take this as depression or as a dusty melancholy.

It is merely a drifting thought.

Drifting thoughts. Like everything I simply let them pass.