We were there, chasing answers as if they ever existed, the biggest one of all being a stone cold slap in the face - there is no answer to be found.

And if we realized life is but the biggest absurd of all, would we despair or would we finally set ourselves free? Unhinge our brains from the claws of our own expectations, digging bloody into tissue?
If we were to learn life's a joke with no punchline, a poem with no closure, a play without a final act, a sentence without a full stop, would we grip the words, meaningless, scrambling to make sense of them despite knowing we couldn't? Would we jump on stage, mid-act and pretend we knew every line up until the very end, though secretly being clueless if we've even grappled the right script, tugging there at our pockets, half-read and with letters all blurred? We were too busy, skittering down the street to catch a train with no number, to arrive in time for a play with no name, no time stamp on the ticket.

Life was never meaningless, it was meaning full to the point of blatant cruelty. Every which one meaning and road is yours, though choice mocks like a devious merchant. How do you move on taking just one, how do you sustain, hogging them all?
But know this: whichever one you pick, it becomes the right one the moment you do. Greed of choice may as well be the worst kind, for you don't crave riches to feed your vanity and build a life of glamour, you question and wager a life you've meticulously built by your measure, dispose of a pair of your trusty old boots just so you'd snatch some new leather and rubber to craft new ones by the image of the prior, squishing and stomping until they're as good as old. After all, size of your foot never did change and your feet will walk just the same, if not with a sudden limp at a seam that wasn't as tightly sewn before.

Well, now you say, okay, should I not try anything at all for nothing will ever be that good, because no matter what I do, it simply will be... meaningless? I say you've made your choice already. Pursued opportunities and dropped some choices along with a few sleepless late hours. I say you've already taken fancy to having your feet cushioned and warm or growing blisters at your fingertips, having spent so many relentless hours sewing leather, pinning nails.

I say if you're wondering how to get there, you're already there. No, this isn't your cliche 'life's a journey, not a destination'. Though, it's always funny how the statement's true and we still hate it for its cruel, simple truth. Funny how we have blisters, although we just wanted more comfort. Funny how in becoming more, we think we ought to arrive there as less. Less years in our life's time stock, less nerves to spare, less sacrifices in reserve for fair trades, less dreams, often even, less friends, lesser hopes.

If it's a joke, I'd rather have it laughing than wearing down my own skin and bones. If it's so meaningless, I'd rather spend one day in a tragic but carefree little life of a butterfly, than a human ripping paper months off paper years hanging as a sullen warning by the kitchen cabinet, right there by the toaster and a peanut butter jar. Tragic and banal, sitting together by a low hum of the fridge, unseen and purposeless up until you sneak into the kitchen barefoot, yearning for a glass of milk and a cool cookie from a peskishly squeaky oven in the calm of late midnight hours.

So, I can tell you one thing here, days are only numbered if you count them. And only if you glance at that calendar, squinting in dim, yellow glow of the refrigerator light as your fingers blindly grasp for a jug of milk. Who does that, I'm just here for a goodnight cookie, you think to yourself as you ease down the chocolate chip with a crisp sip of milk. And see, any day is a day in a life of a butterfly. You're dying anyway, yet you live. Here. And now. Well, of course I live, since I'm dying anyway, dummy.

How we got from boots over butterflies to cookies and straight back at butterflies again, frankly, beats me. Thoughts are like that. What ought to be the most sensible things in the world, end up being quite the opposite. What sells out to be a Hollywood blockbuster worthy adventure of a lifetime, just so happens to be a sweet night rendezvous with a lone fridge and a squeaky ol' stove. Peanut butter and those numbered thingies on a spiral binder just keep chillin' in the back.

So sneak out of your room. Take that bite, take a sip. Give those old boots another try. You might wear them on an ordinary yet peculiarly memorable rainy day in the city, or a sunny stroll through a field of daisies...or a rodeo, you never know. After all, life's an adventure.

Because most times,

it really isn't.