Today, after completing all my work, I sat down to read a comic book. And I felt awkaward. Everyone around me was working and I was 'chilling'. Things were slowly crumbling apart around me, but I didn't want to be bothered by it. What bugged me into shutting the comic wasn't the situation, but my reaction to it. I then took things into my hands and started directing things on stage. Still didn't make me satisfied, like I wasn't doing enough.
Is every happiness, every desire, every comfort or assurance we seek really that different than trying to capture a whisp of smoke? When we open our hand, we find it all within out grasp, but the moment we make to grab it, it slips between the fingers, and floats away on a displaced trajectory.
Has every person you have ever loved, every dream you have ever chased, every fear you have ever dreaded not been the same? No matter how much you do, something is always missing.
I wonder then, what would it be like if you could actually capture the smoke? Is the missing part as much integral to humans as fluidity is to smoke? Or would we just be groping onto thin air?
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