Random

I am often led to wonder if my life is anything but a farrago of dreams, not all of which can be realized. As much as I yearn to gorge life even through every single one of them, reason enjoins me to turn my back on impossible reveries that I come to have woven, no matter how painstaking this gesture might be; and turn instead to the ones where an effort by me has chances of reciprocation as success, or an output in a corresponding proportion.
All in a hope that the abnegation that I shall subject myself to, if I shall, vindicates itself in the end.