Oh! The spinning incoherence of thoughts that evade some truth, trying to tell me, or you, or some judge of all things something: something about me, or my condition, or us, or our condition, or...nothing.
Some stream of emptiness tumbling over cataracts of abandonment washes over my selfish mind. Why has the perfect friend left to find their own course?  I am flustered, flapping in the jet of time; losing my grip I will I will howl to an end without a sound, without a mark left to behold.
Laziness, contempt, intolerance; excuses.
I'm lonely.  I yearn for stimulation, for purpose, for control, for freedom, for independence, for contentment.  The joy of the search itself lost, gone the way of futility, meaninglessness, and the jading of age.  Lost is the youthful exploration, now nothing rings anew.
A bland, fat, old man shuffles by my mirror, looks back and shakes his head.  Tired eyes, empty and unfulfilled hint of fear and wasted opportunity.
You can escape if you have nowhere to go.
There is nothing to prove.  There is no approval needed.  Then why do my dreams put me at the forefront?  What creates the desire to be sought out?  I have no expertise.  I have no song to sing.  I have no story to tell.  I have no poem to write.  I have no vision to prophesize.
I have it all.