The problem with all this is that all good things must come to an end. At least for me. I feel like for normal, well adjusted souls, they are able to weather the changing tide. Me, I get sucked into the riptide, then spat up again onto the rocky, unforgiving beach.

As my friends have told me in some long-gone era, I favor extremes too much.

Is there a way to hope without risking disappointment? No, I guess not, because that doesn’t make any sense. If there was no risk, it wouldn’t be hope. It would be inevitable. Predestined.

Although, I’ve got to tell you, sometimes I can’t help but wish that some supernatural force could tell me that some day, everything will be all right. Or, alternatively, it could also tell me that I’m utterly doomed, and I might as well enjoy the ride while I still can.

The problem with existentialism is that there is no rest for the weary.

I don’t know. I don’t know. What is it I want? What thing is there in the world that is within my reach that can grant me lasting contentment? Is all happiness horrifically effervescent? Is there no way to hang on to this feeling of hope and well-being? Does the darkness have to always come so soon?

An echo reverberates across the stream of time, the words come to me compounded, like waves of harmonics piling on top of each other: Why can’t I set my heart on a possible thing?