How often do you pause to conclude and reexamine? Ignorance is bliss, but it is just as miserable—what sorrow one must unknowingly live through, not making introspects at all?
It’s for you; it’s for me; it’s for them: the key phrase here is “at all.”
Days flow by and leave like the breeze, so barely palpable that one is left unsure—did the days, seemingly consumed, really exist at all?
You see your days slip past the deceivingly narrow gaps between your clumsy fingers—how does it feel, to have control yet none at all?
Amidst eager desires, did you inadvertently neglect being upright and functional?
That’s how it happens, you, seized and trapped by the anticipation of it all, so much so, that what unwinds leave you no satisfaction at all. Always on the lookout, seeking to gain in the future, and the future is no longer yours, but then merely a prolonged nuisance that cause you to furrow your brows.