The Meaning of Life

In essence, is not life ultimately the untimely end of a poorly paced interview? To be born, only to die. What possible meaning is there to strive for? A momentary happiness. The pursuit? It is a never ending road. In the distance you can always see those giant gates of gold, the stream as blue as the sky and rolling hills of evergreen. And the path is always laden with footprints. Dirt, mud, windstorms, rain. But what they don't tell you is that along the way, there is a spot where all footprints disappear. A giant quicksand. And the stars burn out, the sky blackens and everything seem to swallow you up into a vortex of emotion so strong that your breathing becomes shallow, and your heartbeat becomes unbearable. You shout, or you may want to, but your voice is sucked away by the gust of inertia carrying you down and down into the swirling whirlpool of styx. A flowing red vortex of death awaits all those who are naive enough to pursue that deceptively close apple. The reach of an arm. My fingers were so close, my reach so far, my arm extended so much so it felt like it was going to tear off. That branch.
"A shadow of a cloud...and she could see the river."
A stream of consciousness.