farce

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so you come to a point in your life when you stop.
and you hope not to linger a little longer, but you nonetheless do.
as your smorgasbord of realities look you straight in the eye – teasing, laughing, glaring.

they call it quarter life crisis (if indeed i get to live until 100), but i’d rather call it that raw whimper of the soul, asking you how long it would take, for you to finally realize, that your palpably pleasing realities are, fundamentally, not your most veritable of joys and happiness.

farce.

but we all get by, don’t we?
just as we all ought to, and whether we like it or not.

and we leave those dreams we sport to that divine power that stirs this universe of chaos, and we can only pray, and hope. and pray and hope all the more.

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