What I Have Here Written

I have set out to change the world, to make an impact upon society, to ensure that my name will forever be etched in the annals of humanity. But though I might clearly view the destination, my mind is still shrouded in mist. My eyes see only immediate affairs, and my feet travel only familiar paths. Trudging through my quotidian life, I cannot seem to acquire the initiative to imbue each moment with purpose.


Why must I be confined:
—to the sleeplessness which haunts each muffled night?
—to the acquiescent torpor which seeps into each sleepwalked day?
—to the listless apathy which mutes each unvoiced thought?
—to the restrained passion which yearns for a clear purpose, strains against the dams of normalcy, and probes for a vector, a channel, a conduit through which I can flourish?

Sometimes I wish I could lead a normal life, shrug off the mantle of future leadership, and find contentment in mediocrity—but these moments pass quickly.

In less than a day, I will once again quietly assume my burdens. I will once again recall the monotony of tracing footprints. I will once again forget what I have here written.

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