Life swirls around me like an unforgiving storm, determined on whipping though the walls of a stable existence.

But life is kind to the young, it buffers and softens around them so minds can grow undressed in a gown of scars. Wouldn’t want it draping around them like a cape.

But sympathy has never been indefinite, and tends to run out long before it should.

Then everything becomes heavy and fragile and loud. Fear replaces ignorance.

Oh sure, words sound nice when carefully placed to form pleasant vignettes adorned up in assumed epiphanies. Like candy eaten to subdue hunger. But it is easy to do, to create impressive assertions from detached thoughts.

Writers are nothing but candy men.

And that’s life: the romanticized event that is but a string of empty moments amounting to nothing.

But they must mean something. So they mean something. How convenient.

No one knows what that “something” is, so the best we can do is shine a light into a world of darkness, and call it the sun.

To piece all we have together and drape it over our trembling bodies, and pretend it’s the answer. To hide beneath that safety blanket like we’re young again. Pretend that life is still kind to us.

Part of me hopes there is someone, somewhere, laughing their ass off as everyone down here bumps around and makes a lot of noise. Part of me hopes that they will shut up, because we are doing the best we can.