A strong push of cold wind

All my ancestors had to worry about was survival.
Maybe that’s luck, fuck, because I accomplish that 3 days a week and now I’m stuck between greatness and survival, waiting for the answer,
I dunno, should I search for a rival?
Answer to what? That ‘rival’ question wasn’t the real question,
What is the question? Is that the question there?
Would the answer just reveal itself if it was the right one?
Maybe it’s –
What to do next? I wish.
What is greatness to me? Nothing yet.

Because I suppose I need to know what it is instead of glancing at my phone every five minutes waiting for the answer to pop up like an ad for the lottery.

Should I be soul searching? Or just searching for that joy I had when I was a boy?
Was I happy then? Where was that question then? Did it matter?
I suppose it did, perpetually-
always greatness,
always worry.

My happiness has been jarred, I don’t know what by.
There are fleeting moments of satisfaction that release me.
Like when I float down to the creek,
that’s tangible happiness I’m sure.

Carefree dogs make me laugh in uncontrollable outbursts.
Searching for sunlight under the strong push of cold wind,
make me feel determined to find a warm spot.
I’m jolted with expression on seemingly laid out occasions like it’s a black tie function with no real input or output to the goings-on.

I love filling books up with words, is that all I’m meant to do?

Maybe I just need a strong push of cold wind to feel that determination

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