Vicious.

Every time I walk by Candy Lane, they seem to have new candy up. Sometimes, when I hurry through it, they beckon me offering me every kind of candy to taste. They shriek out to me, tempting me with their pretty colours and tongue-salivating smells. If I so much as look at a particular flavour that seems interesting, it pounces on me to get me to taste it. It looks inviting enough, with its supple shape and desirable smell. I think I know exactly what it would taste like and happily ready myself to a feast, but the moment I so much as nibble at it, my face twists in horror. Here I thought it would be sweet, with a slightly tangy after-taste, but this is sour!! It happens every time that I seem to gather gumption to try another candy. All if them delude me with their sweet scents and promising flavours. A green piece, with a smell that’s reminiscent of a taste I can’t quite describe—sweet and sour and a slight tart taste that’s almost acerbic—attracts my interest. But when I eagerly taste it, anticipating exactly what I dreamt it to taste like, it shocks me. It’s all too sweet and nothing else. Its colour and smell deceived me. Again. It happens again with a yellow one that I am sure would be sweet, and salty at the very end. Except it isn’t.

Then there are others, who stand near Candy Lane, eagerly waiting to see if the candy would beckon to them too. They can see some of the candy, and they don’t confuse their flavours like me. They know exactly what they want and where to get it. They look on longingly at specific ones that they especially desire. They know that the green one is sweet, the yellow one sour and the purple one bitter. They like them and want them. How do they know? Maybe I would never know. But they do know them well enough. Know them by heart while I’m helpless in my ignorance. Or is it my incompetence? But the candy never seem to call out to them, they are too busy tending others. They look on, wistfully, sadly.

Who is more wretched? They, who know what they want and where to get them, or me, who misjudges them all? They desire the real, for what they want is actually present, before their eyes, but they can’t have them. I desire delusions, which I think exist, and they eagerly submit themselves to me. Except they turn out to be just that, delusions. And I shrink back, again.