Perhaps, Pattern.

After the necessary check of imagined possibilities and temptations that can possibly ignite from the dream of this all, it comes the time where that slightly unnecessary old hand grip on my shoulder tightens and reminds me that Depression never really did leave me; stooping low enough to mock my discomfort of everything that can be felt. This is what happens when much is being felt and less is being rationalized. When the balance of how balance should be is flipped randomly allowing the variety of damned chances to occur. That's my life. A crazy flipping chance that requires no more than a pop of this and that to allow the mind state to come to a halting rest. It would be peaceful. A release from the chains of a pattern or from the patterns of a chain. I wish I knew which is worse. Perhaps, to my confinement once more shall I retreat, alone. Or maybe, with an unwilling you. I back away cowardly, embracing the acceptance of disappointment being part of the air. We simply breathe it every second. No reason to deny the existence of my corrupted optimistic-fake public self. This shows well clear that I'm not who I am on the outside. When inverted, there will be a gap low and deep enough to let all misery loose.