Untitled

There are many great things in life which are umistakably better
unnamed.
Concepts, feelings, all kinds of things that can drive the very soul to tear itself asunder with conflicting thoughts and opinions that have
no direction.
Expanding in every direction until it has spread itself too thin and is enveloped by the very thing it had attempted to ward off in its
compassion.
Like rays of light in the dark, peircing through with unbending will until it too oversteps its abilities and is
lost.

I feel that way sometimes, as if I'm searching constantly for something, anything, to pull me closer to that which helps someone work towards something,
a purpose.
Yet I feel always like the taste at the tip of the tongue which you cannot name, the thought that has just escaped you as you're about to speak, the idea which fades as soon as you try to put it to paper,
utterly lost.
Some will see this and think of me as spiraling into despair, depression, or overall unhappiness but those who know me know the truth behind it all and how I have always felt
at blame.
For everything has a cause, a driving source for every problem, and everyone who knows me has come to the realization that I am quick to blame myself for anything and everything that arises in the lives of others because
its easier to blame someone else.

I want to be blamed, that's the funny part, because to me...if I can be blamed and relieve others of their misery or personal responsibility for whatever haunts them then
I have purpose.

I feel untitled. Purposeless. No goals. No direction. Just writing, scribbled hap-hazardly on paper and left nameless as I have little more use than to be discarded or tucked away as a personal secret, a waste of paper, ashamed.