Like plotting lines on a map in the hopes it would lead me to the treasure I had heard of when I was a boy.
X marks the spot
Sometimes the belief it is out there sustains you more than the actual bounty,
But we are hunters.
We set off into the night: armed to the teeth, but our bark is worse than our bite.
Chasing our own tails
On our tireless quest to get that feeling back—like searching for El Dorado or the Fountain of Youth
We will cross streams, traverse mountain peaks, descend into dark valleys. Roll the rock up the hill.
But we put the gold into the slot machine.
Yet we put all our faith in chance.
Still the cogs in the machine will turn.
The answer remains the same.
It was proposed long before the question was even asked. Like the faintest beacon of light on a dark, still night.
Spiders construct webs.
We construct the most ornate castles of distraction to surround ourselves in to avoid the truth.