There's a delectable agony in what we call life. It's the delusional fantasy, and non-satisfying elegantissima that we crave. We're all in constant pursuit of the exclusive ecstasy that we relent others for having. We strive to obtain spectacular lucre and legendary glamour only to be rewarded with clinical fiascoes that backtrack us into vulnerable reality.
Even if one were to achieve their luxurious dream, he would view it as a bleak victory, derived merely from ordinary, every day labor. We are the murderers of our own success.
This untouched phenomenon, this calculated destiny that we have so perplexingly planned out for ourselves is nothing but a shamrock of paradise. Our own expectations are cataclysmic and cause aching havoc in our hearts.
We need to be conscientious of the certainty that right here, right now, it is our choice to evoke a personal Arcadia. Not only to claim authentic bliss, but to procure the indistinguishable vibrato of contentment and comfort. Only through this revitalizing practice can we genuinely attain a perfect, nourished, satisfaction of life.