Iris.
Artificial strawberry candy.
"Beauty queen of only eighteen she had some trouble with herself."
Here lie the scattered thoughts, loose memories, and distant remains of a bygone me.
Iris.
Artificial strawberry candy.
"Beauty queen of only eighteen she had some trouble with herself."
Here lie the scattered thoughts, loose memories, and distant remains of a bygone me.
I’m in my second year of university and for the past while I’ve been feeling drained. I’m doing well in school and I make time to go out for drinks once in a while — I should be having a better time than I am now, shouldn’t I? What’s wrong with me?
Nothing.
Isn’t this the disease of the 21st century? We’re satisfied, yet we’re looking for something better—something more fulfilling. Yet, we don’t know why we’re doing it.
We struggle with the meaning of our lives, seeking out humanity’s purpose. We think that we have some kind of fate—a mission of sorts to accomplish before we expire.
But when will people come to terms with themselves? Maybe it’s because I feel resigned these days or because I’ve grown up, and in the process lost all that idealism, but when are people going to realize that we’re all insignificant specks brought to life for merely a century? There is nothing more. So why aren’t people happy?