Forgive me if I seem a little irritated with the way you've been thinking.  All your life you've been pushing and pushing for a change for some sort of satisfaction in unsatisfactory circumstances.  And all this time, through all this life you've been leading, there was not one simple inexplicable thing that drew your attention for one solitary moment.  It was a scatter shot blast from a rusted old shotgun, reliable but filthy, this was how I pictured your version of your future.   You wanted it all, but could only access the strength to play with the fragments.  Don't take this as an insult, however, you should not take as some sort of compliment, if it were one it'd be the most minimal, the most abysmal sort of compliment.  It'd be the type of compliment that one shrugs forward and mumbles with irritation through gritted teeth and jealousy.  I am jealous, this I cannot hide, because in your hopes for your future that oil spill atop the water, where your tasks never go together, where your contradictions abound I saw something that didn't so closely resemble a life led by rote.   For now I feel suctioned in all the time, all the hours of my days, suctioned into the motions, im stuck, a scum sucker on the bottom of the fish tank.  I remember believing you though, when you said my future wasn't written, that fate wasn't worth a load of trash, I just wanted to become so much more than what I was and you took my hands and you promised i would.  You promised that if the world was worth it to me, I could own it, possess its beauties and live a life of complete and utter bliss.  But dream on you liar, you thief of virtues, you spouter of so much wonder and dreams, this isn't how it all works.  and in the end I probably like that it isn't so much a cookie cut out, as it is a strand of interconnecting rivers, while you search for the connecting strands in your philosophy i will live life the only way I know how and simply hope for happiness in the dream house of an absent reflection.