A Promenade Through The Catacombs of Understanding.

if i could fly,
i would probably be much happier.
drifting over the city at sunset,
watching the light reflect
off the multicolored panes of glass...
would most definitely put me into the highest spirits.
soaring through a thunderstorm,
soaking myself clear to my soul,
would be the greatest therapy yet.
but i can't fly.
i can't even glide.
so i must find other things in my life,
possible things,
that will make me happier.
i could say helping in my community,
carrying old woman’s groceries across the street.
that these things would make me happier,
but they don't.
whereas they may help me clear my conscious
they do nothing for the state of my being.
what else then, can be used for my sanity?
no matter how much i think, rave, or scream of it,
the answers remain the same.
i can find nothing to make me happy
nothing that relieves my burden,
not substantially anyhow.
So what can I do?
A have few choices,
I can try to change that.
Wich involves effort.
Or, I can whine about it on paper,
Thus changing nothing.
Rather leaving the problem for future generations.
When, I can only hope,
Some eager young scholars with problems similar to mine,
Will stumble upon this poem,
And do what I have failed,
Change.
Though I still think it would be easier to learn how to fly.