"The disease is life itself"

Life isn’t meant to make sense. It is a congestion of people, thoughts, random inanities, illusions, etc., it is a mess of swirling disasters with few hints of happiness, and if you’re lucky, hints of bliss. But, see, poetry and prose are the ongoing failed attempts at making some sense of life, of hesitantly easing the dagger drenched in blood out of the bony hip, of solving the grand puzzle whose treasured solution always remains up for interpretation, of holding disarray and covering its scars and pains with smokescreens so that the good and the bad look nice and pretty. Life isn’t nice and pretty. And, the disorder will not disappear; but, too, will the cries of lovers and of thinkers, of poets and of writers, not fade into the midnight fog. We will continue to fail miserably in making sense of life, and we will continue to succeed in making life a lot more confusing than it needs to be, for poetry and prose will forever stream through our fingers.