something random.

The future looks like a black canvas waiting for me to be painted on; yet to be filled with magnificent colors from my palette of emotions. I am currently in a cynical state of considering that amateurish idea of without end. So many eras have passed; some old narratives seem to have amused the human cranium that such blissful endings do exist. In this pitiless world of impostors how can it possibly subsist? I feel sad to suppose that all elated feeling of pleasure will one way or another come to a tragic end. It proffers absolutely no console to hear foolish expressions of possibilities. In fact, this mere thought of indisputable reservation scares me. There are just some chronicles that I wish would never end. Schmaltzy stories I’d still want to feel thrilled after years of hearing them repetitively. Better yet, permanent love from the one I feel eternally bound to. And yes the future looks awful. Who will fly with me towards the sky? Paint with me this canvas of the heavens in timeless glee.