ranch hands

do you ever feel ten years older than the calendar states, or four years into a bad thing? is it worth choosing your place in the world if you don't know what you actually want? much can be made about the power of choice, but most people have a limited range of options that are even conceivable. how does one say that an opportunity has been realized or missed when so many are out there unknown? there is no point in arguing with yourself, and little reason to question many of the decisions that seem important in life. i tell myself these things on nights when the noise in my own head drowns out all possible distractions. i read to myself, in my head, leave the light on in the hall, and tell myself it's all right. occasional thoughts creep out of bed and up through that lit hall to join me at the dining room table over a magazine. nighttime can be the best time to read as so little is happening that everything takes on temporary meanings that offer clues to knowledge that stretches beyond the bounds of rational thought. the colors seep from the page to stain my fingers, and words echo softly in my own head. never give up on an experience that offers irreplaceable lessons. turn the pages until all logic has fled, the ink burning your fingers as it fades to nothing before your eyes. all that remains is you and a blank page, your nose a dancer that cuts mountains of parchment into pastures for a new frontier. you could stop any second, but the weight of the hours pushes you ever onward.