Sought is individuality, charm, and wit. A praise is worth more than gold. Acknowledgement is a grant for correctness and likeability. It’s the company of others that provokes the need for conformity, when uncontrolled or unnoticed, it becomes an unwanted fellowship of convention, a wobbled pacing of thoughts and beliefs. Directed by the lunar tides of society.

Some retreat to solitude to see through the gray. Some accept the gray as the only true color for their lives. When one has to go where the winds blow: rising above, and falling below. It’s conformity that’s left for us to be assured of our state. It’s not correctness we’re after; acceptance is.

The more we are deprived, the more the canvas loses its sharp colors, with only the blank gray surfacing above all lines. Where love becomes a state, where bonds become a duty, and obligation becomes heroism.

It’s the deep sorrow that’s holding the strings, and the puppet has forsaken its soul, for the collective standard above all. Resenting itself in favour of a false goal.

You can’t pour from an empty jug, often said. And those who know the jug is empty might attempt to overfill it till it spills. Compensating the long emptiness. Wishing for “a pretty royal flush of second-hand fame”.

Lives long-lived for a critical acclaim, A good-for-nothing quest of disdain. Addictive antidote to pain. Where nothing left to claim but a soul hiding in shame.

Such there is Night، not Night as ours—Unhappy Folk
— J.R.R. Tolkien.

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