My life is but a dream, transcient and unreal.

The lives of others seem more rooted in reality than mine does- I am like an onlooker, aware yet ineffectual in affecting what is around me. The so-called passion that flames in the brief life of a human does not seem to burn in me- many times I have asked myself, what is it that has rendered me so cold, so unfeeling.

The longing for a different life- it has always been there, yet it does not seem to move me into concrete action. A passive onlooker- a comfortable one, I suppose, that should be the source of my inaction. I suppose it is laughable, this passive me, such that even I laugh at my compliant nature; that nature which accepts that which is presented before me, the absence of the sense of urgency and injustice that throws many into fierce struggles for survival.

There seems to be a call for blame- but to whom can I complain of my disdain of this passive me? Not my upbringing, that seems too convienient an excuse. Perhaps the matter that makes up this useless me- but that is too painful. Inherent nature or social conditioning, that age-old conflict again. Perhaps a little of both, perhaps none, just my current inclinations, or disinclination to act, that should be blamed. But even the act of blaming seems so insignificant, when all that is in existence, of me, seems an unchangeable truth.

I am searching, searching for something- that lingering dissatisfaction in my life that alerts me and discomfits me. Then maybe this is a sign that I am not truly comfortable, for I am made aware that there is a lack- whatever that is.

Weird contemplations at this time... will get back to this train of thought in the future....