My expectations from life have been debilitating to say the least. I often out-expect everyone out of the park and end up sitting on a bench all alone wondering why it is quiet and lonesome.

It isn't what but why?

If it isn't the battle against meaningless or the rage against the mundane, I am otherwise consumed with thoughts that have little or no meaning in the cosmos. Except for the odd principle and code, the others are wisps in grey smoke, which I replenish when it is about to disappear.

I upset someone very dear today. It's the smoke! I promise you.
I am addicted to its acrid smell and its foggy countenance. It shielded me from so much; and now I have run out of reasons to envelope myself.

What is down to a few clouds will become mere shadows. All I ask for is understanding and you.