Everyone who turns that way is a fool.
Everyone who turns this way is evil.
Everyone who turns back is a coward. Life is idiotic.
But sometimes fools are exempt from a scholar's punishment, blissfully ignorant of a higher world above and below. Cowards keep their lives where the courageous lose them. Evils are free and happy while the virtuous struggle to stay afloat in an ocean deep cage.
The people who refuse to submit to a category are eventually murdered by their own ambiguity. It is often that your vitality is wrung out of you bit by bit until a crisp shell is the one working, reasoning, and speaking. But never feeling a thing.
The uniqueness and strangeness of the human being is that we have the rationale to plan methods to conquer our future, but our future consumes us more than we are proud to admit. Pride twists us in abnormal ways, and we balance our well-being with our social acceptance. It is a skill and an impulse that borders self mutilation.
What is really obvious is the shells. They are always there, whether you are sprinting through a narrowing maze or strolling up and down verdant hills. Sometimes I pick them up, and they are so fragile. They are waiting to be crushed into bits and pieces under someone else's heel, and strewn throughout the sky to be excused.
Each of them possesses a different pattern, though all hold a commonality close to their hearts. That commonality is discovered in a shell's eroding curlicues, its fading color, the heavy barnacles that weigh it down.
If you see a pretty one, treasure it and take it home with you. Like how sand dollars are scavenged from beaches and gemstones excavated from mines, beauty is always appreciated.