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?
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,
Still starts your mind racing.
I remember the times, a past so long ago, when as a child there wasn’t a care in the world. Who cared about tomorrow when tomorrow had no worries?
When my life was a clean slate.
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
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
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?
7 300 000 000 people and counting.
Humans, such indescribable creatures
Everyday, every minute, what each and every human face
Whether they are rich or poor
Black, white or grey
The one with sympathy or without
Millions of events and small incidents occur in life.
How each and every one has a story
How we live the minutes and hours blind
That we don’t matter but only to ourselves
We are just organisms
Made in God’s image
Just of futile existence
Another race surviving to be the “fittest “
We face the human condition
How purposeless yet meaningful is life.