A moment of perfect synchronicity imbues one with perfectly pure lust,
What may pass as a moment of absolute clarity is merely insanity in guise.
Nothing is more true or certain than “if it seems too good to be true, than it probably is.”
And so I place myself confidently in the arms of imperfection.
Happiness ebbs and flows with the most certain uncertainty.
This, in striking contrast to the certain fleeting moments of happiness which are swiftly replaced by the most dire of miseries…relentless miseries with no end in sight.
Of what kind of insanity am I possessed to even begin to entertain the possibility of such an existence?
A brief high, a short romance and then the condemnation of a bitter, foul emptiness.
Yes, I will chose time and again the imperfection of years that have somehow become perfected by their own faults.
Something that has rooted itself deeply and permanently cannot be tarnished by those passing moments of the promise of something better…happiness cannot be extracted from something forged by lust created through anger and desperation.