It's a cool, drizzly, foggy night.
A mist caused by the falling of midnight dew.
Scent of freshness of a washed world.

One of those nights which you can either snuggle away, curled up in your comfy bed or let those stream of reflections emerge. Or better, do both.

Of so many things, it was meant to be. Or not meant to be. Or meant not to be. Do they all mean the same thing?

A case of missed opportunities, chances slipped by, lack of action. Or is it destiny, fate. Or are they all essentially the same?

Regret sometimes come packaged with an ignorant acceptance of second-best, conscious contentment with subconcious dissatisfaction.

But what would we give up for perfection? Maybe nothing? Because perfection might not be perfect after all; what we have now may be good enough.
Or is that an escapist's excuse of denial?

# rambled by Kenneth @ 12:30 AM
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