It's a feeling we all get. The one that comes when you realize something is ironic. This feeling catapults you into the frame of mind that something isn't quite right about things--something is off. It brings visions of parallel places, where things actually make sense, and we're just living in one of the places that don't.
Youth is wasted on the youth. The most beautiful person on the outside can be the ugliest person on the inside. You make plans for a vacation outdoors, only to have it pour rain the whole time. The fact that fall leaves look more beautiful when they are dying than when they are alive.
What are we supposed to make of all of this? Are these ironies purely coincidence, or is there something more sinister afoot? It's like life is one cosmic joke played by a trickster who has control of the tapestry--control over the end of the story. And they won't stop until you do.
The worst part that gets me is that people don't give up. I don't give up. We deal with the worst shit possible every day--interrupted by short bursts of contentment, even joy--but we still continue on, we still continue to hope for our futures. That's an irony in itself. Even though all the signs point to the possibility that everything is one huge joke, we're all too afraid to laugh.
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