Motion Picture Soundtrack

Sometimes the world feels staged,

Like in a theater 

Where we i am the actor

and the onlooker,

The observer who participates

and the actor that spectates.

The everyday cycle

Normally mundane

Yet fast-paced

With the occasional thrill,

The predictable plot,

and the bland sourness and confusion.

Feels like a dream in a dream,

An unreal loop

in itself.

The constant questioning feels

Like a character

Realizing his existence in the setting .

Yet the setting is all there is.

This body

A costume

Binding his mind

and existence

As this soul,

A molecular speck of dust

In the many centers

Of the outstretched universe,

yearns for the day

At last,

when the final curtain is drawn,


The day when i am




Why have I changed so much?

Referring to past photos I’ve found myself a different person.

Why have the times slip through my fingers like sand?

It feels as though I’ve been stuck in quicksand, failing to progress but instead regress.

Why, of all things in the large scale of this universe, should I worry?

Why of all the words in the world do I not know how to describe this feeling within?


Low-flying Panic Attack


But everything else was silent.

Putting on that poker face,

Acting through the façade,

Smiling through the cracks.


The darkness within engulfs you,

The vines in your heart entangle you,

The shifting shadows enwreathe you.

You can feel the accelerating rhythm within you,

Though mild,

Still starts your mind racing.


What Is Life?

I do not know.

At the point in time this is written, all I know is if there is life

there is death.

Nothing last forever, not even the universe.

In this short pathetic lifespan of 80? 90? Or even hundred years, God knows how long(or short), of living, what do I do? Does it even matter if it still ends the same?

What’s out there? Beyond our universe? (“Beyond” is probably a human concept and perspective too)

Is there time or any of our physical laws “outside” our universe? Or is that, too, just a fragment of this universe?

Why do we even try

when we are this measly small and extinguishable

For What Do We Exist?

What is the meaning of life?

Why do we try so hard when, after all, we are still specks of cosmic dust?

All these end when we draw our final breath, so why

Do we live?

When after all we have created our own environment 

Discarded nature 

Outlived our purpose of survival 

Disregarded the animal instinct 

Cramped ourselves into those small office cubicles in the concrete jungle 

When on the other end of the globe, they have barely any life in them 


For whom does the bell tolls?