All the queen’s roses

An orb will always be an orb, and no matter how hard you try, you’ll never flatten it out. Craters will always be valleys, they will never rise to plateaus. Some things are as certain as the sun setting in the west and a monsoon season in summer. You can tamper all you’d like, but what will be will find a way, in spite. So wonderfully foolish that we try again anyhow. Maybe the most lovely little trait our human brains foster. We get pricked by the thorns and still we reach for the roses. Perhaps it’s not naïveté, perhaps it is a credit to our adoration for second chances. But it borders on madness when we expect fundamental differences in simple little ironies. You can vacuum the beach and more sand will take its place. The only permanent solution is removing yourself from an endless loop of wanting better and find all the same.

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