Humans of simple sins. Of innocent debauchery and harmless hedonism enjoying the not-so-fine finer things that life never really meant to offer any of us. They are products of pleasure, appreciating all that must be relished and revisited on occasion while falling deeper into the hands of self-indulgence, existing not for complexities but for simple desires.
When reality strikes, hands work and feet kick. The struggle begins and the proud strut is reduced to a pacing, the body reduced to a casing, and the human within hardening with each passing failure it becomes accustomed to facing. Pleasures are few and far between, everything experienced turns to old habit, and simple actions are the fruits of labor, not the pathway to inherent and oncoming successes that are so craved and expected.
A foot ahead for a foot behind keeps stagnation at bay. An inch clawed is an inch gained and a small victory in the day to day is a conquest fit for kings. Our shells are not protective, easily vulnerable to wear and tear, and our insides intangible, susceptible to endless chaos.
The human made of metal, of mettle throttled, shaken, stirred, and settled. If only he had little pleasures to give him ground. If moderation was his vice as to not wear him thin. If he could balance the left with his right. The one who wishes to exist with a smile while juggling his frown. The one who wished to be lifted up as gently as he is let down.