Sitting in an ant hill

I'm not one for introductions because I think everyone will read into it differently.

My thoughts fail to connect the dots between experience and change. There are moments my ideas form actions, and actions form ideas that are a result of neither tolerance nor circumstance. Somewhere in the void of good and evil lies a thick line of morals slipped past me, disguised only as mistakes. Cliche metaphors of life being a roller coaster turns my lemonade into a base such a milk because I favor it far more than any acidic after taste. Other instances in my mind forgeting to register as significance, become a reoccuring dream or two. I know the lessons well, I recite them. Until I am numb in the absolute and to the point of confusion. Three's become sixes and I'm found in my gray ZipLock bag crinkling the edges to be felt. If I was, ever, what I intended to be, I would be, without doubt, what I am. And since I've found none a moral, the guidelines leave me listless on top a hill. A hill of ants, and my only clue is the swelling of my hands as I write instead of Be.