Where would you rather be if not here?
Where would you rather go?
What would you rather do?
They say grass is always greener on the other side --
What if it really is though?
How can you know?
We spend our days in a constant flux,
Of wanting to be,
and being,
Being ourselves,
Trying to be better,
Climbing this steep hill
Rolling a rock up endlessly,
Like Sisyphus
There's a strange hope in this balance
Of being and wanting to be
Of being caught in the center of a storm of thoughts and emotions,
Navigating without complete knowledge,
Navigating, almost without purpose
We won't ever reach where we want to be,
Because we will keep wanting more,
More out of everything we are,
More out of everything we could be
Like explorers in the middle of the sea,
If we find an island, we'd want to find one more.
Not stopping, not ceasing,
Moving onwards endlessly
We'd rather be on a journey to find,
Than finding itself,
Suffering and rejoicing in the gentle hope,
Of what lies ahead.