What are we doing? I mean, what are we really doing here? Does any of this make sense? Does it matter? Are we happy? When we speak to others do they even look remotely close to the same?

The fact is we’re all apart of a grand novel. The remaining pages remain blank and we don’t know how to fill them. And as we attempt, we find the ability to trip just short of whatever finish line we’ve manufactured inside our minds.

As I write this, I remain a flurry of motion due to the recesses of alcohol. But I do not care. And I do not wish for a better thing. For what I gave never became what I thought I should have gotten.