“Happy families are all alike; all unhappy families are unhappy in their own ways.”

— Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy.

Amidst the disappointment of what—a mere 2 minutes ago, had been a suspenseful, loving, soul-baring discussion—yet ironically the closest moment one’s has ever been with the very figure meant to nurture and guide..

..now clouded by an unspoken weight stemming from what appears to be their under-exposed lifelong experiences and sabotaged soul, projecting an overwhelming fear of imaginary dark places looming far ahead.

In this very delicate moment, with huge amount of understanding for a fragile thin-glass-like forever-years-old soul, humming on the opposite side—in an attempt to break the awkwardness filling the surrounding air, while directing as much energy remains gazing to the other direction..

..can’t seems to stop wondering, how could—how could, how could! with the deepest sincerity while unable to look away from the figure across.

With a slowly-fading yet ever-ending spirit reflected in those eyes—with full-emptiness that can’t seem to discern that their surroundings are trying to soothe their shaken soul, giving them a shred of hope, bringing the promise of brighter tomorrows.

But their warrior soul, driven by almost-wisest—yet horribly wrong ideas of virtue, brings the worst version of themselves, in—coincidentally the wrong times and places.

One has asked what seemingly very innocent and simple question—yet really shakes them to their very core—

“Is it so lonely over there?”

With what seems to be the last remains of their energy, so desperately trying to hold their tears, dispatch their warriors to defend the very essence that defines them for their ultimate virtue.

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The scarcities of what they think about their dogmatic preferences, over what more logically and practically plausible drives the whole life-meaning to some sort of unimaginable coordinates, that even hypothetical invention of multi-million dimensions unable to make it make sense.

The place they call home, ultimately just rifted concrete walls with rectangle-shaped portals that divide societies with what they call family, with everything inside of it trying so hard not to lose their sense of self for they are simpleton beings, in this cosmic diverse and indifference universe.

One can—with their strong believe, argue that everyone entitled for their own interpretation and understanding of how far away they can think things through, with no rules nor obligations to show and tell afterwards.

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To quote a piece from Oscar Lolang, from .Feast’s Watcher of the Wall

Lord, if my tongue split into three, then I’ll strike up upon thee

But somehow upon all of my puffed-up-ness

We sank down deep in this river full of Victorian dress

Isn’t it so fun to juggle around with what one can define as truth so much when no one else will ever be able to grasp even the slightest light of which aspect is considered as the truth.

The glorified non-pragmatic thinking approach which supposedly will guide one into the truth itself, had almost lost its values, right beneath the nose of them worshippers—yet a much higher level of understanding for thee, sinister pointy-finger, is much needed.

With what lies beneath the surface of—extra-ordinarily-intricate well-put paragraphs after paragraphs, one follows with nothing but, well is there an alternatives, singularity perhaps?

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But despite all of those conundrums, seeing their childs innocent eyes, their little hands holding the glass with both of their hands, their laugh, and their dance with no sense of rhythm whatsoever is quite enough to put them aside for a little while.

After all, what’s there to whine about, for we are a quite particularly-ordered-and-shaped atoms that knows that we’re even atoms at all, the only animals conscious of our own approaching demise.

Live long and prosper.