Every time you have the time and space to improve, you do nothing.
I hint as I speak, I highlight with red rings of fire. Yet you sit back and act like a bitch.
Stomp your feet and throw yourself onto a bed of floral, fresh memory foam, and you peek before your soft landing.
You pluck out yet another appeasement and sprinkle it around me, hoping it remains as effective as the last dose.
You forget that all things have an expiry date, even plastic degrades, eventually.
I could draw a map daily, provide a flashlight and, of course, sustenance, and guide you myself, but you’d get lost again. I’d forever state how lucky you were to end up exactly where you started.
It’s a miracle.
Bless my soul for believing in you.
These days, I don’t even get my hiking boots on. I sit in a cosy chair, sip hot chocolate and catch up with EastEnders. There simply isn’t time to volunteer anymore.
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