Broken.

I tried to tell you, but you didn't get back to me. You tried to tell me too, but I'm just as busy as you are. Busy, busy, busy, and so the lines are breaking.

Everybody has something to say, but nobody is obviously saying it. Everyone has somewhere to go, something to get done. But, really, it's the important things we neglect.

Times that I could catch you. Things that I could say when I do. Places we could go and things we could do, if only we said the things we ought to say.

Maybe we are busy. Maybe, more so, we are just ashamed. Ashamed of our silence, ashamed that we have no answer to give, ashamed that we've let the silence consume us so thoroughly.

We would assure each other "we are trying", but the messages don't get through these walls growing in time.

Life is growing ever difficult, complicated, confusing, and full - it seems - of endless tasks that will never be done.

Afraid and lost and confused and overwhelemed.
Pointless fruition leading into an endless pursuit of the wind.
I don't like growing up anymore.

-Rk