Mediocrity

Mine. She the moon illuminating my path. I walk nowhere and everywhere. Like a bad writer would, except my words have purpose. Not purpose as in there is something I need to say. Greater than that. Purpose in themselves. They will do and say much more than their words ever could. Not as if by chance, but by will. The moon will be mine. I want the goal and the path. But all paths end at the goal, or a goal. I will wait for greatness, I prefer it. I prefer to suffer in the lack of mediocrity for greatness. It is mediocrity that keeps me from mediocrity. I must first be great to have greatness. As I stumble along the path I will find much greatness. I will mark these spots and return to claim them. I don´t care what my words mean, only what they do...to me...for me...by me. Along the way words stumble too. Their ideas killed by their mediocrity. I must escape medioctity´s blunder. Face the facts and the details. Why is there a world beyond this notebook? That path I cannot see yet I follow it. Makes no sense, but sense has no place here. I will worry less about such things, if that is possible. The moon is blue or white. And it illuminates my page so my words can illuminate it back. But they are not my words anymore. Now they are the moon´s. Now they are the world´s.