Life is so much like a novel. After all, we all hope that the chapter we are reading is where it will all end. We hope that the story does not go through another of those iterations, another set of characters, or another series of reinterpretations. Can't we just be satisfied with the way things stand and not have to change a thing, not have to flip another page and just lighten yourself of the burden of remembering how it all came to be? And just submit to a more than momentary feeling of contentment?
Hidden behind every unfurling petal of joy is the dewdrop of a tear of sadness. In this garden of wilderness, instinct is your only ally, often an unreliable ally. Like the lifesaving antidote that arrived a second too late, it rises to the occasion only after the audience has left and the stage is empty. In the confusion that ensues, the only hope is that we do not upset any more of the general scenery. Regardless, we must move on, minimise the damage, hold on to that mantra and hope, once again, for the pale light of the rising sun.