At one point in your life, you will feel.. overwhelmed, with everything that’s going on around you. You will soon find that it’s becoming a struggle, trying to juggle the things that are of equal importance to you. You will find yourself losing faith, and there will be times when you wish you could just escape from it all.
When you read a book, you usually don’t linger too long on one chapter, no matter how beautiful you think it is, or how wonderful it makes you feel. You move on to the next one, because you want to know what happens next. And you don’t dwell too long on a single chapter, just because you can’t get over the sorrowful turn of events. You may find yourself going through past pages, reliving what has already transpired, but you don’t ever stay stuck on one page. No, you simply must move on to the next one; you have to know what happens next. You have to know how it ends.
I once met myself, at the corner of 5th and Welson. It sounds hard to believe, but I did. I was on my way to work when I saw him running towards me. You could imagine my surprise; I knew it was impossible. But there he was.. or is it there I was? Anyway, this someone who looked exactly like me was there across the street from me, and he was wearing the same clothes that I had on. He was in a hurry, I think, because I could see that he was gradually sprinting towards me. And he was angry, I think, judging by that scowl he had on his face.
It was the last thing I saw before his fist hit me squarely on the jaw.
He was walking along a narrow and dimly lit corridor, when he happened upon a piece of parchment lying on the floor. To his knowledge, he was alone, and so it came as a surprise to him that he was holding in his hands a tattered letter. Straining his eyes against the hazy, yellow light of an old street lamp, he blew away the dust from the letter, and started reading:
Melancholic musings will always be a part of anyone who has ever felt low, or has at one point in their life felt so miserable from doing the things that ought to have meant something to them. You start out with that smile painted on your face, and yet by the end of the day, the smile starts to fade and discolor from the moisture brought about by your own tears. As night slowly creeps in to snatch any trace of light, you try to comfort yourself by hiding yourself in your own personal sanctum, dreading the coming of events that will once again leave you drained, and lifeless.