There seem to be certain bouts of impossibility in life, throughout which those living in an oasis of possibility insist upon your own ability. To them I toss my head and huff my breath because it is my god-given right to do so. Perhaps it is more so because the world expects a 3600-page thesis on color theory when everything is blending into an indistinguishable gray. That, to me, is nothing worth writing. Perhaps it is also because I have been given a plea, no, a command, to be happy–for those around me depend upon it–without the slightest instruction. A pat on the shoulder and a piteous smile is worse than stone-cold silence. Perhaps that is why I am silent most times.

A vicious cyclical nature this gray has–they say that true happiness requires work. It requires effort. Wherever the color and vibrancy of the world went, I assume my work ethic and difference (which should properly be the antonym of indifference, and while it isn’t, it’s my blog, so I shall toss my head and huff my breath to any naysayers) lie there too. And so I have not the effort to work, only an engine-less desire. I am left with few options: remain as I am, gray and tossing my shoulders on my desert island of impossibility. Or chase an untrue happiness. The latter is so delectably tempting.

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