Sometimes Most of the Time

Sometimes most of the time I think I'm doing it wrong. I expect less from myself than from others. Maybe its the past; particularly how I've wrapped it up like some busted extension cord and tossed it in the corner. Maybe its the non-existence of the future. My Lord, the present is the only thing that lasts forever. Does this mean I should throw caution to the proverbial wind? Let it all hang out to dry like laundry? Fuck it all, no regrets? That sorta thing? Sorry, my conscience tells me that is much too shallow. How does one ignore the billions of little children called thoughts running through his or her mind at once, like some labyrinthine playground, a new one born every passing moment? I can't stand it! Thinking is in my nature, and overthinking is a burden I bear. Remember when we were kids? Who? What Where? Why? When? How? Myself tells me nobody can get through. We're all just waiting for the bus to reach our stop. Waiting for the island where the sun is just hot enough, the clouds just white enough, the water just clear enough, the day just perfect enough for us to face it. When did we grow so many layers of skin? I'll be honest, there's lots of questions I want the answers to. But that's just half of it. The other half wishes he was brave enough to find out for himself. Patience...