This Too Shall Pass...

You spend time thinking perhaps this is it... You wonder, is this the right thing? Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But isn't that finally all it truely is? A gamble that has no hope of really paying off. You think, 'Maybe, just this once, I might for a change, actually be right! Maybe for once things aren't as screwed up as they normally are. Maybe this is my moment, maybe this is my love story, maybe this is my epic...'

And then you look up and see a round shape hurtling towards you. It gets steadily bigger and bigger... You wonder, is this my opportunity? Is this the big IDEA? And then it hits you in the face. All it was was a cricket ball. And all you have is a bruised jaw.

You look at the Ibsen readers and think, 'Is the pointlessness a means to numb the pain? Or will pain lead to numbness?' You have the pain, and the pointlessness. And all it all, it means nothing. You mean nothing. You are as wanted as an ingrown toe nail. Without you, the world will function, thrive even.

And that is the worst, isn't it? The knowledge that at the end of the day, you don't matter at all...
Or do you?

You matter to me. So shut the fuck up and get your arse back together.

I'm waiting.