You must be happy today, because you are better than you have ever been.
Time has passed you by, made sundry marks, and it took years to brush off the last bit of shards.
You had wished for more than you could achieve, and life, smiling wryly, let you go on still.
You wanted to make your name, again.
And proud parents, let you break it down, since you… you were born to recreate.
You took up a challenge with the certainty of winning, and your brain never told you that you could fail.
Why would it when familiarity hadn’t, yet, bred contempt?
You looked forward, and you were glad, because onwards, always onwards was the only way you knew.
That was well and good. For the longest time, it was all well and good.
But you see when you were born, the skies did not part, and no thunder struck.
It was a piece of procreation, no different from an ant or a tadpole.
When you smile smugly and believe in fate, it barely remembers you, beneath its load of human malcontent.
One day you finally realize that breathing is not a privilege because the air passes through you.
And ‘onwards’ becomes a sad little town.
Away from love, from success, in loneliness, in a depressed little place.
Still, there is that fine little hope.
That upwards is the only place to go.
You must be happy today, because you are better.
Or so you fervently pray.