contraction I

I've never really filled anything entirely. Thoughts, notebooks, obligations are all left dangling in the nothingness of possibility and the possibility of nothingness. I look back at my scattered work, at my dying passion, at my halfhearted attempts at being something one day or doing something the next and wonder if it is merely from a largely overwhelming laziness that limits me with an exhaustion of spirit and mind, or if I'm just stuck in a spiraling trend of outgrowing my surroundings over and over again. I'm reaching out for new space. I'm detaching myself from those things that are dead and minimizing the dying or constricting things around me. I am living a debauched and obsessive journey of needing something new always until it becomes old the next day and pushes me out of its space. My words are growing more and more tightly together on these little lines because my thoughts are suddenly so compressed. Yet it is quite paradoxical, then, that I find myself yearning for sumptuous open space and believing it will just appear before me without my effort. Do I expect too much out of the world, out of fate? Or am I really meant for greatness? Or am I not? No, I've never filled anything and it would be a somewhat pleasant struggle to do so.