Tragedy teaches us that the objects of our contemplation – ourselves, each other, our world - are more diverse than we had imagined and that what we have in common is a dangerous propensity for overrating our power to comprehend that diversity… Though, I perhaps have a stock barrel of illusions in the tattered overcoat of my mind. One illusion however, I do believe to be absent - and that is an illusion that we have very much in common with each other.

Why is it, it seems as though the hardest things in life are the things that we look back on and think, “damn! glad I don't have to go through that ♥♥♥♥ again”. There always seems to be those things that have helped us grow and be strong in the present; in this present. Should one not then, only choose the hardest in life, abort all conveniences and comforts, and become a little more than a street person?

I always want to help street people. Go and stick a five in their hand or something, but then I don't want to interfere with their patterns - and yet we keep waiting. It's incredible, how long we seem to be able to wait - on and on - thinking that one day it's all gonna somehow gel. It's gonna crystallize in the mind. We're gonna realize - and from that day forward, it's gonna be all right.

But that day never comes. Each day is like the one before it: a frustrating continuation of uncertainty and self-doubt in this vast sea of little decisions. Which path to take? The high road, the low road, the road in between - and even the most golden grapes, aped by the would be monarchs of this day and age, nothing but a disgusting form of self-therapy in one little cavity of time.