And I still think about you, even from the lowest point, half daring to dream, half mockingly jesting.

To stand on the edge, to look and see your life flashes before your eyes- what it was like, what it is now, and what it'll be like. Wouldn't you be intrigued?

Then you'll feel your future right there and then, calling to you, and whispers its gentle sufferings, its metallic caresses ever determined to keep its rhythmic touches upon you. 

Do you not desire liberty? 

Back to your native spring!

What does it matter now? Change is the only constant- one must keep chanting in one's own mind. At what price? Who knows? 

One must keep up the apathetic disposition, smile in the face of fear, and seemingly mock at the ever fluctuating nature of occurrences one has been graced with. To recoil from doing so is to torture oneself more slowly, for the trials are perennial and stretch beyond the foresight, the end of which never appear even in the slightest manner. Yet, to what extent? The mind is giving way to despair, to abandon itself to hopelessness, and attiring itself in nothing but disdainful defeat. 

What use could life be to one who can only wish but no longer hope?