Quittin' Time

How do you know when something has had its day?  When the sun has set, the door has closed, the metaphor becomes exhaustive and tripe-like?  Will it come to me in a dream or will my guts ache with longing for the thing I passed up or by?  Does nothing happen?  Will no great epiphany strike me and I'll know what and when to do it?  I confused.

I want to know my heart.  Its needs.  Its desires.  I want to be an open vessel for it to relay its message to me all the live long day.  I want to be able to silence the other voices and receive.  I want to receive the messages that will lead to action.  I've made strides in action but now which course to take?  Do I have these questions because my options seem endless, or is that just it;  They only seem infinite when in reality I have limited possibilities with which to pull from and don't realize that I'm stuck in a box filled with diminishing funds while the rest of the world 'elite' think on which caviar to buy and who's going to clean their summer home this year as Magna was fired for free thinking...she was also pilfering the china cabinet.  I reach for the stars above and come up wanting...always wanting for something bigger, greater than myself.  am I so lost in looking that I can't see that what I have is enough?  It's not enough.  I see what others have and not in a physical sense but in an emotional fulfillment kind of sense.   How do I know when enough is enough?  That I'm merely holding on to a past daydream or something somebody one day said I was good at and should be.  I loved theatre.  Well, I loved performing.  Still love it.  It's all the grown up garbage that goes with it.  The marketing, the diplomacy, the ass-kissing, the self promotion, the egos, the assholes...all of the crap I allowed to suck the life from what I truly wanted.  Now, what do I want?  What should I do?  I want to do good.  I want to do good for the rest, for myself, for the people I hold dear.  How can I do that sitting in a room with a bunch of other lost idiots, finding myself through them, or through the work or through my teacher crush on a woman bent on making a living in this world.  I wonder if she still cares about what she speaks or if it's a paycheck and a pat on the back.  Maybe that's all there is.  My image of something more is fantasy.  Perhaps the point of all we've created is to make as much moola as one can muster, manipulate the world to fit our view of what is and make a break for it before it all turns to mush.

I wonder...