There have been times that I've missed typing into this empty, empty box. The white blankness just seems to stare you back in the face, at least, until you paint it the colours of your mind.
Maybe that's just what the world is. For those that see it as boring, a white, like the pixels on this screen, it remains so. For those that fill it with their wildest creation, and live each day to it's fullest, this planet is something beyond dreams.
And for these feelings that felt by others before, now being felt by me, I can say that time will no longer be wasted. As time has gone on, it seems that society and it's people no longer feel the burning adventure that was needed to get us to this point in time. The burning desire for knowledge, for development, felt by our ancestors to live in a better life, is no longer felt by the people of today.
His wrinkled face, the cold hard stare
scanned past your own, and further still
the pools shone clear of burdens he'd bare
once he dug through the earth, of the cold lonesome hill
or forged with his hands, the roof above your head
his strife follows duty, to guard your will
As he digs and is digging, his hope going dead.
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