Your problem is that you cannot distinguish the puzzle on the table from the picture on the box. That’s your problem. You just stand there dipping your toes in a river with fools, wishing success was as easy as breathing. Wishing struggle was a problem only for evil people. Meanwhile a storm is brewing, and nobody knows how bad the weather will become. But here’s the reason for hope: Nobody can make you do anything. You are your own puzzle-boggled toe-dipper. Look at you there now. You do whatever you want. You weather the storm. You weather the weather. But whether you weather the weather or not, you still must complete this puzzle, or else put it back in it's box.
Shafts of light squiggle around the barstools. Beer kegs roll across the dance floor. Sirens blare around the watertower. And I am speaking into your receptacle. Your earlobe. Your brilliant soundwave notepad. You are jotting things down deep within the Neverlands of your frontal lobe. You’ve got organisms that are sorting my words according to their importance. According to some neuro-chemical relevance criteria. The waitress looks concerned. The guy coming in from the parking lot looks disgruntled. Snow weighs down the autumn leaves. The first snowy day feels the coldest. You’ve got spark-plugs behind your eyes that stimulate the most hypnotizing gazes. You’ve got bread crumbs behind your cheekbones, and birds are flapping their wings to get in. You’ve got those shafts of light around your spinning barstool.
All my secrets turn to mush in the mirrors and magic medicine halls that I wander, when I wander (if I wander at all). There are powers in the minds of men. There are secret powers in the thoughts of children (powers that inspire). There is power in the air that degenerates us. A gravity beyond gravity, so it seems. A secret gravity that somehow worms its way into the secret power-centers of people, and holds down their secret powers. DEFY, children! DEFY GRAVITY! DEFY! Rise up out of your gravity and conquer all that pulls and presses. I have become lost and wandered into these mysterious medicine halls. But I will not die here... I promise you that right now.
Believe me, I’ve considered your syntax. I’ve analyzed your prose and it’s intentional flow. I see where your coming from. I see you there through beams of light. You speak in syntactical prose and I discern it. You have packaged this in a certain way, and I have uncovered it. You speak of love and nostalgia, but do so with carefully chosen words so as to not forget about death. You write with pride. Your words are bold. Your candle is wax. Your scrolls are old. Your flame is dim. You speak of love. Your syntax is revealed. You speak of love. Your prose are flowing like melted wax down a table post. Your flow is pro. It’s syntactical. It’s analyzed. Well done.
People are approachable, but you have to approach them in the right way. You can’t just jump at them from behind the flag pole, or spring up at them from out of their hose-box. You have to move smoothly and casually, like “it ain’t nothing.” You can’t bring up sad stories or spew forth the drama of your past, and they just do not care about your idiotic fathers and your unsatisfiable mothers. All they care about is their own wish lists and their own to-do lists. Approach them with a helping hand, and they will invite you to dinner. Approach them with a task and they will darken the tone of their voice. Approach them with intoxicated slur and they will awkwardly back away. Sober up then. Wash yourself and prepare for your approach. Come in smoothly and offer a helping hand.
My journey is always bogged down by “the others.” I’m surrounded by other people who get in my way. Look at them all! They are “sign-readers.” Vote-casters. They are "anti-vagabonds" who scrape and wander and go far below the speed limit and I can’t seem to get around them. I signal and blink. I cuss and shake my head. Yet I need people. I am a social animal. I was designed for community. “These signs were made by people,” I shout. I am built to love and incomplete without a friend. “These stoplights are here to serve us! We are not their servants!” But I am surrounded by sign readers and people who conceal their cheats. My car is a turbo charged sedan, but there is never enough room to really let that turbo blow. I am a social animal. Leave me alone.