There is little point in waxing poetic when this world was set in prose. The poetics were a stairway to escapism- there is always a danger of warping reality in the construction of a romanticism in the form of a getaway boat.

Yet, like Rachel says, the Happy doesn't last forever. Indeed, it might be a rather plastic casing of yellow. How then, does one deal with reality? Escapism has it's flaws, stoicism often ends in cynicism. And the bottom of the valley often seems a strange unknown place (as C.S. Lewis could tell you).

Moderation, balance- so blandly ideal. I wanted sparkles and fireworks; I found paper confetti. People turn on heel faster than one can say "ho". There's only one who stays. And he who stays- abide in Him. For if he's stayed this long and come this far He sure must want something with you. Not from you. For you.

And from a distance He isn't sparkle and flare. He's simply Him. How we've mistaken His identity countless times and walked right by Him! And while He may hold no attraction through your human eyes, keep walking, hold your direction steady. For you'll not know His worth until His hand touches yours and suddenly you find that the source of life isn't an unproven scientific theory. What a fortuous moment that is- the door of your gaping black valley closes in that instant and you know you must never let go of the hand that bled for you.

To hang between two thieves in the darkness, Love must believe you are worth it.