Roadmap to Shambhala

I consume the art I can't create. All it does is fill me with more emptiness. I want so badly to create, but I can only consume. I'm the kid with the crushed macaroni painting. I end up eating the glue.

I'm bad at being second. I'm terrible at being the afterthought.

I'm really good at addressing letters to no one.

The happiest moment of my life has already passed me by. Sometimes, before sleep, I go back there. Over time, I find the memory fades. Everything is just a bit more blurred. I can't see and smell it like I used to. I can't feel the contact, the weight, the impression. I'm holding air. Misremembered particles.

I tried to be good. Now I'm not so sure anymore. Maybe I never was.

Sometimes, I try to make the universe align. I'm not God, but I figure if I try hard enough, if I really concentrate, if I really see it in my head, then I can visualize the road map to Shambhala. I can multiply the moments I haven't had since. I can be something other than second place, the glue stick connoisseur.

But I always just end up back in bed where I always was. And the world outside is just as quiet and cold as it ever was, jet wake above proving once again how no one could ever see the boy below.