Out of time

I want to do things. Then I don't.
Sometimes I wonder who the owner of my life is
where am I going
why am I still here if I am "not here"
I am starting to suspect
I might not like this anymore
but then again, what do I like?
What do I want?
Where would I be better?
What is my true call?

I'm running out of time already
one less sunset for me tonight
out of the countdown to the end of my life
no one ever warned me it would run out this fast
time won't wait, yet here I am
waiting for time, looking for something
that might never be,
a signal to point which way I should go.

Day in and day out, it's just
an empty road to nowhere
There is no one else to blame but me.
Sometimes I forget my essence and I can't seem to find
Myself amidst the background noise
And this blurry hologram called life.

A mind is a beautiful thing to make up.
Then, why can't I make up my own mind?
Alas, life slips away second after second
And we can never get our time back.