Abandoned

Sometimes my mind is like an orphanage, or a children's home. An home for abandoned ideas. All just floating around, milling about aimlessly, waiting for someone, for me, to pick them up and make them my own. I go visit sometimes, but like everybody else, I don't have the heart to stick around, to develop them, to take them home. It's pretty sad. And every day it grows. A bright, young, promising little idea walks in those doors dejected and abused because I didn't have the time or the will to grow him up. And so the cycle continues. Every day I make an attempt to bring one of those precious little ideas into the light, five more are pushed into the dark regions of my mind where nobody can see them, to rot and grow stale. Every time I write, that's one child lucky enough to see the light of day. The rest remain, some to never be seen or heard from again. I can't save them all.