Fatal Flaw

There's a stale smell about the air I breathe,
Like I've done nothing more than make the best out of what I've been given.
More than "recieving the hand you're dealt," you must play it.
In the past, I haven't been so lucky... or maybe, clever,
Which is why I'm where I am.
To be in a state of discontent, I'm not troubled,
But I'm troubled by something I see in me.
There's a way about me that I can't forgive.
There's something in me that begs for more.
What point is there in lying to a soul?
It is my great void, and my great adventure.
To merely exist, to do no more than react,
Whether other or self inflicted, I have felt this on many occasions,
And in such a condition, my only optimism,
Can be found in the truth behind consistency.
I can ignore singular acts and emotions,
I have learned to ignore so much more,
But with tall stacks of evidence in my past,
I see the void which must be filled in my soul.
My hope, my great attribute... it is my fatal flaw.
Mine isn't one which destroys, but one which drains.
Like all my other longings, I long for the sea...
I crave the smell and mist and motion when a boat is on the water.
I find myself in exploration of the unknown.
To be in motion is fulfillment.
It's a craving for what I lack, or more aptly,
It's a craving for obsession.
Perhaps I find myself not in the sea nor mountain nor escapade,
But perhaps, to be found with true obsession is sufficient.