I looked at the abandoned train tracks ahead and laughed at the irony. I did not know, just like the tracks ahead, where my life was going, in which direction it was going to take. Funny thing is, years after, fully sober, much clear-headed and with a little bit of maturity in, I still don't.
We are a crude sponge, sucking away on a plethora of emotions, cultures, violence, lust, greed and hate while walking on the year road towards all-consuming eternal oblivion.
We're all spiders spinning complicated webs of lies, confusion, hate, deceit, and betrayal; waiting to trap innocent, malnourished insects. Sometimes in a cruel play of irony, we end up getting caught in the web of another spider.
"But how much is forever?"
"Till the time you feel tired and decide to leave me behind and move on..."
A good writer strives for appreciation as much as he strives for constructive criticism; and how can he expect criticism and/or appreciation when his content is only out there for a select few? It is much more difficult to convey heartwarming and heart wrenching emotions through the tactical use of fundamental elements than resorting to serpentine words with equally esoteric contexts.
The antidote to pain is not happiness, neither is it love. You can gulp down all the alcohol in the world, pump your veins full of drugs and you'd still feel empty as the vacuum enveloping you.