Expectancy is harmful, indeed. All this time we wish upon humans who were odds-on to be made from stardust, yet not shooting stars. They do not have wishbones placed under their skins, nor walking with horseshoes. Humans are just to whom our hopes and wishes drift, along with promptness of accepting that they may not grant the whole lot—they are just creatures of no good luck charms, no wish makers as well.
And the whole humankind itself is filled by imperfection. Things would nonchalantly go below expectations. We persist with those who never meet our expectancy, yet we’re too frantic to even think about the vice versa; to quit and leave. Then the only reason that keeps us surviving is that we would not spare our time to begin again, to restart things, so all we do is try to stay. People’s roles would be uncertain, some not even aware of our entreaties toward them. Even that certain subject who is supposedly to be our healing would meet the timing of letting us down and not lifting back. We know the only armour we have now to subsist from discontent is perseverance.
Then in a world where longings are unsafe, and hence the rest of the world would possibly do us harm, it will be truthfully nice to be offered some contrary kind of cures. It really is.
To my current sweetest cures, this is to let you all know that having people working on their duties beyond expectations—in a world where we’ve been adjusted to meet all things below objectives—would indeed never fail to make the day. My day.
Thank you for the therewithal remedy.