We want life to be predictable. All nice, neat and tidy. Not messy.

We want to believe life is fair, justice prevails and everything happens for reason.

We strive to build our worlds, our little kingdoms here on earth, only to find ourselves spinning a web of lies.

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We want everything to be black or white. Not gray. Where everything makes sense.

What if I told you life is messy? Would you believe me?

We grope around like someone finding their way in the dark. We’re reluctant to face our own mortality because it’s frightening.

Toiling for meaning, we spin our web, creating pseudo realities, convinced we control our destinies.

Weaving idyllic fantasies. Subtle urges vying for our attention. Secret longings tugging and desires dancing upon hearts.

Warm breezes caress our faces like a gentle hand, whispering sweet nothings in our ears of what once was.

Enticed, seduced, we plunge further into an abyss, a quick sand of hopelessness.

We are like that butterfly caught in a spider’s web, fighting to be set free.