Into the Bell Jar

Sometimes I wonder why I feel at all.
When the world weighs heavy and I'm wishing and pinning for the chance to follow the status quo.
When I wait, ever patient, for the glimmer of hope that comes with the spy of someone else's life.
Only then do I feel that life itself may be worth living.
But I feel remorse, in a sea of vast guilt as I reflect on the world around me.
My children are everything and then some, much better than all, across the moons and stars and infinite worlds beyond this one.
But me? I am a shell, surely not meant for what I am so lucky to have.
And if someone told me they feel this way I might mock them,
tell them how insane they are for even letting the thought drift into their psyche, let alone control it.
Yet I am controlled.
A puppet on a string of the worlds calling, that dances to the tune of a lifelong wanting for the things I do not possess.
So, into the bell jar I go.