Indeed, life works in mysterious ways. Very very mysterious ways. Sometimes, in ways way too mysterious even for someone like me. However two days on, I guess life is not all that complicated afterall. We complicate things. We overthink, overanalyse and overkill even the simplest of things. At least I know I do.
After much thoughts and silent laughters and smiles, gone are the butterflies in the stomach and dark rain clouds that painted the rainbow black. Recently I've come to admit that I can write all the stories I want but at the end of the day, I know a story has already been written for me. And if my senses are still working, I'm sensing a story being written - and for the first time, not by me. It amuses me. (:
You know, like Keats, "I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain."
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