Pause Button

Men mistake themselves for the weather of their moods. A mere passing emotion controls their entire outlook like that of an axis to a wheel. The whole show revolves around these fluttering whims of highs and lows as the pendulum swings back and forth. A sudden change of climate and a man may see success where once was failure, or failure where once was success. His mind is a noisy street with no shortage of accidents. His imagination floats likes a feather or sinks like an anchor, and his daydreams fill the space between the lines, with not a single breath to spare. There is no pause button, it seems, in this passing of time, and so a man is carried with the tide. It’s in constant motion; this great cascade of ups and downs. So many have their eyes closed, ears broken, senses shut, but the merriment never slows or stops. Men sip on this cocktail of forgetfulness and enjoy themselves, even in a state of blues, regardless of any question to truth or fiction, reality or fantasy, goodness or indifference, duty and sloth, and any ruckus to their sleep is soon forgotten in their beds. Sanity beckons him, calls upon him, seeks his thoughts, waling like a misfit child when a man remains indifferent to any chance of change.


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