That pleasant stench sticks to me.
On my hair, on my fingertips,
I taste it on my lips.
The scent of apathy brought on by monotony,
Stagnancy through uncertainty,
The reason I can sit for hours,
Waiting for the sun to go dark,
Or my mind to disembark.
Whichever comes first please.

And I do not combat fate as so many often do,
I await it.
Pondering its nature,
Anticipating its arrival,
I sit not with fear but with curiosity,
Knowing full well that I cannot know,
And thinking nonetheless.

And many times I have swam in the waters of the conventional,
But instead of a brook I found a dam,
Being trapped by the very salesmen who first enticed me to swim.

I have found that way of life to be full of hoops though.
Littered with activities resembling pushing boulders and chasing wind,
Offering fulfillment at every turn yet never dispensing it.

What is seldom mentioned however,
Is that fulfillment is self-administered.
No digital doctor or luxurious alleviant can flood your IV with satisfaction,
Because satisfaction is a state of mind,
You must find it within yourself,

Deep in whichever meditative crevice seems appropriate,
In some corner of the soul,
Where self-awareness resides,
Where feelings of adequacy reside,
Any place that offers some plausible way of life.

And so I sit,
Stewing in thought,
Breathing the air,
Knowing I'm as fine being here as anywhere.