Sitting in an ant hill

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.