Lights turn an angry red at your every approach; happy hours end a minute upon your untimely arrival. Odds are stacked miraculously high against your favour: like a conspiracy theory waiting to be unravelled into a full-fledged drama fraught with tension and sharpened with the edgiest of knives, you dance with danger despite knowing only too well that the end does not fully justify the means.
But when the only option available makes an excellent example of an oxymoron, and a nudging push becomes a forceful shove, can you still take it by the horns and continue to work on seizing the day? Or will it become a mere exercise in futility, designed to further quash your needs and wants and shred what is left of it into bits and pieces so unfamiliar and indistinguishable even to the naked eye?
Stagnant and immobile, unmoving and yet not quite; for being stranded right here, right now, is certainly no fun.
Maybe this is what they call a mid-life crisis.