For the longest time
and without relevance
this ponderer of theory
of philosophy
this thing
having no prominent features
plain
like gray of skies and blankets once blue
had sight for only things within reach
or
things within desperate grasp
nothing stretching beyond the norm
or leaving the comfort of ambiance
or nostalgia
to experience anything more
a pain so useless
so thoughtless
but acute in numeric value
yet with goals so tiny
it fails to reach these pieces of self
the things it longs for
become its self-definition
its identification
upon entering the world of other soul-like specters
sprawled upon each other
in a combustion of almost human collaboration
thought and understanding
and learning
and confusion
its little mind is preyed upon
lined up in tiny seats next to some other forms
of course
thinking the area here
is not so complex
rather simple in structure and schedule
they have it all figured out
the meanings of phrases
dates and internments
and plaguing voices
screech for silence
how much sense do you make
scribbler in the sea
the thing is all alone
and sometimes content
sometimes not
it travels on
unsure destination
judgment
beauty by breakage
and discipline by others and self
the thing is always being molded
change
like today's
never really stops
closed eyes and shallow fevered breaths
count the minute minutes 'til the dawn
and another wisp of tasks to be completed
self is not found in the things
or the life forms around you
yet
the thing
sitting
is longing for the something more
always too far to see or reach

small and useless at times
feeling of little self-worth

keep your limb outstretched
and be thankful for the gray
it is a color after all