Is it easier to see when the storms are calm or is the clear horizon a curse of clouds and mists in itself? 

I sit here on the stranded paddle boat and talk to myself. An island of wood in the murky, bottomless abyss of dark water and I'm still safe enough to breathe. To think. And I think myself in a corner still. When all the mirages pull back from the back of the eyelids and I see that I'm still in the same place with prettier drapes, I can only ape my surprise when it's something I should have known all along like a song stuck in the back of my head from long drives with the family to the next town over because it has a shopping mall. I've mauled my discontent like a disgruntled postal worker when it's only a benign tumor that the insurance won't cover. 

Where do you go when you know that you're not bound by the ties of living like everyone else. They all have that rose colored tint to their sunglasses when I'm the only curious creep sitting in the bush with binoculars out of focus, trying to conjure up something more grand than bland but somehow the dice still lands snake eyes up and I'm barely two jumps ahead of too much boredom to hear the whistle of an empty head to follow my empty heart apart from the alarm that the smoke and mirrors bring to my being here and up so late at night that even the drunks don't pass by anymore. 

Am I a whore to the wonder and what ifs or am I just bored with the lore that I've been read like bedtime stories that I long for something more vibrant and vivid than my sense can pantomime and I can rhyme into being?