The mother of all ironies is how your ego relentlessly allowing cowardice to take over, when you are so close to the magic you’ve wished so hard, struggled in your dreams with Luna, yearned for seemingly eternity, or simply in a naked bare and stripped pejorative manner: that longest period of time, how joyful is the magician enthralling you with the queer shivers of déjà vu, but when you rub your teary and grateful tears with the back of your hand across your beautiful face, you find revelation staring back at you, it’s piercing look of sadness, for at the bottom of leaves you made yourself too comfortable, the verdict is that you never came close to ultimatum, for you have yet to succumb to..

Or perhaps dare to succumb is a better choice of word to describe the defector in you.

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