1.

In time, every single yearning will fade. There will be nothing left but memories of how we lived —on their own way to the bottomless pit of oblivion. The longest lasting being the memories we impress in others.

I kept repeating that to myself. How fruitless every single desire had been —how pointless any suffering related to unsatisfied cravings was.

Praising time as a savior that would rescue me from my yearnings didn't work out, though. Countless times I went back to daydreaming about the fulfilling life that could have been, the one that I thought I deserved. It wasn't comprised of materialistic ideals —rather, a balanced fulfillment of romantic, social and emotional needs was the vehicle to happiness. One that also implied a positive influence in the life of others, a.k.a. spreading happiness.

It was a pragmatic, yet humane, answer to the meaning of life.

Then, I woke up: reality was quite gray compared to the dream's greener grass that had been infinitely scrolling in front of me. In reality, lots of drones kept wandering, asking the same questions with no viable answers. Connecting to others in mechanical ways.

They were not happy —and that didn't serve as a consolation. Not even remotely. Only an idiot would find consolation in the sorrow of many.

Regardless, my cravings wouldn't cease as long as I could infer the existence of one provable case of a fulfilling life.

I knew I could have had it. That life. Almost every human being has the unlikely realizable potential of an optimal life. Every life, like a bead thrown in an enormous Galton Board. You know, the ones with the pegs —boards that are typically used to show the concept of a normal distribution.

Only taking the proper turn in every branch would lead to the optimal outcome —which is probably at one of the board's extremes: the ones with a lesser probability. Any minor alteration of the initial variables —including hitting other beads— would radically change the outcome.

That life optimization seemed to escape from my hands as quickly as the sand on which I sat slipped through my fingers when I tried to hold onto it. I sat on the shore, inside a gigantic sandglass.

Fate had been cruel at times, it had abused hope. Only if I had chosen better... but then, that wouldn't have been me. My identity was conformed by those pitfalls I did fall into.

Hadn't I have fallen, I wouldn't have been the Alice I was.

That rationally found solace of a deterministic reality —in which no ultimate regret was fitting because it would deprive us from our utmost identity— provided some serenity.

And so did believing in the absence of true free will.

Then, the serenity silently became joy.

Then, I was —again— at that beach.

A beach of sand glowing red. The sunset's lighting was effectively obfuscating the true color of the sand. I felt his arms around me. That beach was embracing perfection.

As every step towards perfection became smaller, the true sense of timelessness pervaded me. It was a timeless beach made from my built hopes and their reveries.

Until the sun would go away.

That cycle of hope followed by disillusion followed by hope was becoming exhausting.