A Sprinkle of Sun, A Soupçon of Sin

Should this creature of habit ever break his own tradition in order to graze the surface outside of the more commonplace hereditary proclivity, then the odds are that the potential hitherto will need be declined in place of a newer, more refreshed start. But starts, or restarts, are often so blasé. It happens so commonly, and every restart is just an attempt at the embellishment of the former self to make the new one embody a higher purpose, even if the chassis hardly ever changed and still the same old rusty shit that is bound to fall apart eventually, one way or another. What is truly needed is balance under observation. Losing all that matters is still a pathway forward. Nevertheless try not to think about it under the circumstances. The pain of losing again once all is already lost... I shudder to think.

Particularly Dickensian. But that is all there is to it. What more needs be told? I am not in search for exit strategies, and this is not about second chances. I am way past all of that. All I need is a twine at a random, destitute locale that bears an inkling my next forward strategy should be. A marker of beautiful memories. Something I can swoon over and drive me past the hump. The realisation of being unable to equal to perfection is something that has always been there. It is something one cannot compete against nor attempt to depreciate, because it remains there. That is the value of renewal. Losing and gaining and losing again. A sparkle of hope in an otherwise troubled circumstance, seeming like a rare book. But this is my life, and that is all there is to it.