Who will remember you in a thousand years? What will be left of you? How can we claim to be unique when all our sorrows, our passions and fears are the same as those which existed thousands of years before us and will continue thousands of years after we are no more?
And yet, this existence is all we are given and we spend our days looking around seeking happiness while the search within ends where it began; unrecognized and unseen.
I am a man who doesn’t know how to live; I go through every single day wondering how to find serenity, where to find love, what brings me joy and so, I spend my time asking the questions and hoping for the answers. I started writing to remember and I kept writing to forget. I am restless and, every day, I hope the next day will be happier, better, less painful. I had given up on what’s in my soul for I had dreamt of other places, other occupations and of someone else I could be.
So, I am picking up the pen again although it is burning in my hand and the words are flames blurring my sight from what is to come. There is an urge within, a void that seeks something unconceivable, unattainable, unexplainable. I have tried to give up on writing and it has been a painful, slow death of the senses. Why live? I don’t want to die before I find out.