You ask what the air tastes like on the other side? The same, but perhaps somewhat headier the higher you climb. Only your perception changes... how could it not? You look back through the blackened bars at whence you came, seeing only shadows, sometimes of others, sometimes of your former self... and your feelings for those on the other side become a mixture of pity and apathy. If they wanted to be on the same side of the fence, they would make the effort, of course... such is humanity.
Everything is calm... I am relaxing. After months of ups and downs, things have become entirely too tranquil for my liking. Odysseus, across the oceans and back, house restored, peace made with the gods that be... but to what end? A lifetime, drydocked? Twenty years at sea can be a long time, but could it ever be enough? At night, does the song of the sirens haunt the old sailor?
What is the point of happily ever after...? We know in our heads that it doesn't exist, even if our hearts cry like scared children otherwise... Life is a fight against entropy; a man trying to stand up straight while falling off a cliff, a child building sand castles on the shore... where is tomorrow, and what is the value of today? A queen, reclining luxuriantly on satin sheets, watching the light linger through the curtains... decadent, wanton. Enjoy the decay...
What is the point of a fast life without time to appreciate what we have? The colors swirl around us, unnoticed to those who rush by. What is the point of a life of comfortable observation, analyzed, but never lived? What is the point of the middle ground? A life of compromises... Where is the contentment... where is the way to live? There is none. There is only perception. Life is what you make of it... or what it makes of you. Life will rip into you... will take all that you cherish... will flay your skin with all that you love... life will kill you.
So, is glossy red your preferred color of decay? It's a beautiful color for today... but will it mock you tomorrow? Can we ever be the equal of our dreams, or will our dreams become the masters of us?