I have this strong urge to weep bitterly and curse at the sky. To rage against the universe and moan about the unfairness of life. To shout how life is a game that is rigged against us, that we will never win. Being happy is a pipe dream and that just feeling ok is a feat in itself.
I imagine a dark stormy night at sea. With only a small lighthouse displayed in the the dreary distance. The waves roaring against the shore in a unanimous show of unrest. Every wave working in unison to work against the shore, and the shore standing tall, rolling with every crash because it has no other choice. The tension of witnessing an immovable object in its struggle against unstoppable force throughout the treacherous night until morning arrives, the crashing waves settling to a gentle tide. The storm nothing but a distant dream, leaving those to wonder if the storm happened at all, or maybe it wasn’t as terrifying as they initially thought, doubting what they saw with their own eyes and pushing the thought away just to enjoy the momentary bliss that has befallen them. Yet they know deep down that it was as treacherous as they recalled, and that it will happen again. So the peace that they crave so earnestly can never be truly felt because they will never know when the storm may come again.