Perhaps.

Is this what life is, then? No more than an incessant roller coaster of elation and despair? Of hopeful futures with inspired madness crushed by harsh office lighting and nine to five subway traffic? Of constant, constant apathy over having given up?

For so long, I declared it must not be so. I fought the forces around me, as they shook their heads and waited patiently for me to grow up. Is that what it is? That I simply held on to childish notions of what our lives are for much longer than others, painting my naive delusions in creative shimmers to fit my rationale? That at last it is time to give that up, cut my hair, start a pension plan?

My soul shrivels like a raisin. Lies in my chest shaking. Refuses to believe the tale that paints itself before our eyes.

Is that all there is?