Hating Windows.

I wish I had a catchy opening for this entry.  A joke perhaps, or witty, lyrical opening that would play into the topic at hand.  However, the topic is one that seems to dwell on the other side of the tracks from witty comments and zesty experiences, for I am struggling with life, and it seems anything but witty, majestic, or worthwhile.

Seems that we all want our lives to mean something.  I don't feel like mine is meaning much right now.  I have this feeling often, actually--as if I'm on the edge of arriving at a period of time where I'll be able to invest myself into the right things, into the people that surround me.  And then, that time actually happens.  The period for which I've been hoping meanders into the present.  I make it through the "rough patch" of now to arrive at the green pastures of the other side of the fence.  Oh, glory that is mine over the potential had in that crossing! -- potential derived from care for the future, and its infinite openness for beauty and growth and goodness and progression. For life; zest; the feeling of grass between your toes and the sun on your back and the wind, whispering secrets through your hair as you delve into the richness of life.  So I flop into the grass at my feet, weary from toil and excited to enjoy the green bits that I have previously been sad-pressed to watched wander by--wander by to leave me behind.  In those times of their leaving, I was left with only the imagined, the dreamt of, the potential of life beyond the rough, when I wouldn't lack for time to experience those little green life bits.  "And now I can... "  And so I flop onto my back.  And I'm shocked, for it seems the grass immediately surrounding me has faded a few shades of green.  Why, you might ask--why did the grass fade?  And I'd be a bit hard pressed to tell you.  Perhaps it's a lack of energy affecting my sight, or my quandary over the difficult dichotomy between investing time in self-enrichment or relationships; a greater "wasting of time" on the daily tasks that have piled high, or perhaps into those neglected "meaning bits"/relationships by which I say my day has value, or perhaps a fall into the simple, fleeting joys of kicking back and watching a TV show, or ______________ .

It seems the puzzle of life is far from coherent image of purpose and depth and joys, even upon neutralizing the complicating pixilation caused by frustrations and challenges and pains.  Nope.  It's just a nauseating shamble of pieces of wrong sizes and incompatible shapes, and my head begins to throb as I search for each piece's proper place.  I'm discouraged, not enlivened, by life.