Puzzles, Cosmos and Campfires

You live such a charmed life.

Truly.

And I don't even think you quite know it.

...You're the one that things just work out for...

I'm somewhat the opposite, in my own odd way.

Life throws me curve balls once in a while.

Or thrice in a while.

Maybe more than that.

But not as many as it sends others....

I know there are people who have it worse than I do.

I just wonder why we each get dealt the hand we hold.

Were you simply born under a luckier star than I was?

Or are you doing something right that I am not?

If that's the case, then why hasn't someone told me I'm doing it all wrong yet?

Maybe no one has even noticed.

Maybe that's why some people end up doing everything wrong.

What is the world watching though?

Are they preoccupied with their own selves?

Or are they too busy watching and examining those who are doing it all right?

Perhaps certain individuals just burn brighter.

You're a cosmo, I'm a campfire.

I'm not trying to complain.

Really, I'm not.

I'm not after sympathy, I don't want your attention.

I tell my computer screen what to project back at myself in the hopes of discovering some deep and life changing secret in what is written there.

Maybe the second time it runs through my brain the pieces to the puzzle will all work out okay.

Everything will fit.

I usually just find that I am not nearly as good at spelling as I originally thought.

A fact frequently underlined in red.

I just need some way to feel like I'm telling everyone what is on my mind while still telling no one and keeping things to myself.

And maybe this isn't accomplishing anything like that.

But it feels like it helps.

Sometimes.

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.

.

At times it seems I am trying as hard as I can to hang on to my dreams and hopes and ambitions while yours are being handed to you coupled with a complimentary chocolate piece left on your pillow.

Why must I work seven times harder than you do just to gain one tenth of what you get for being where we're at?

Now I'm ranting.

This post will not have a long shelf life.

It's the kind I write out to get something out of me before I close it all off again.

Then I'll delete it.

It will be gone.

Perhaps.

.

.

.

Maybe it will stay for a while.

The way a fire's charcoal skeleton might leave a mark on a person's skin should the two shake hands.

Then it will wash or wear away.