The irony of being

Life encapsulates bitter truths and sweet memories. 

Sweet memories are a haven to reside in when one wants to escape the mundane reality, moreover some of those give me the satisfaction of being my own, a matter of choice over an inevitable outcome. The pleasure of living on the edge is one of its kind, albeit with regrets, sometimes plenty of them, but then again that's how one learns. Some learn to fly falling hard, and some learn to fly easily, but falling is impending in order to fly, just as regrets are an impending truth of life. 

There are times when I like to delve into the mystical, the ethereal, for it seems an enchanted place, offering piquancy. Moreover, an outbreak is my constant lookout and yet I live a life of irony. Breaking away is never an option in its entirety sadly. There are times when I find myself dwelling deep into things that stopped mattering, things that have no relevance, things that happened as they should've and eventually leaving me to fend for myself as it should be, the only way I see life. How strange it is - reiterating into the shadows when you already know the shadow will follow you always, inseparable, like the soul from the body. 

Some truths are averted, rather hushed, though some have put an end to their mortality, complete and in tranquility, others seem to be tempestuous, incomplete, containing tales untold, the end yet unknown. My quest makes me wonder what is my chase? Or is it me on the chase?!