The more I think about Life, the more I feel defeated by it.
It leaves me clueless while still motivating me to keep searching for answers. It kicks me right in the gut and throws me in a circular abyss of uncertainty every time I run to it with a possible answer; and while I lie there in the deepest bottoms trying to make some peace with myself, it shows me the slightest glimpse of the mesmerizing mountains of hope; and then I stand up, ready to start anew.
It acts like the perfect illusionist playing tricks on me every single second, leaving me entirely bewitched by the fine details of the indecipherable techniques used by it. At times, it becomes that enticing seductress and makes me want contradictory stuff at the same time and in the end leaves me puzzled by the effects of my own intelligent stupidity.
And I start wondering if it is this uncertain nature of life packaged with a certainty of its end that makes it worth living? Or is it totally irrelevant and pointless for me to think about it in the first place? Most of us have our own version(s) of what life is, and what it should be. I believe that life lies in this quest of finding as many versions as possible and trying to understand the common denominator in all those versions.
There are flying birds, high mountains, deep valleys and flowing rivers in this world. Everything and everyone is filled with unabridged emotions and thoughts for every single aspect of this bittersweet symphony called life. Yet with all this richness, there exists that abject poverty somewhere which hinders me from seeing the true picture. And all I end up seeing is what life wants me to see!
And the more I think about Life, the more I feel defeated by it.
I find no answer here and I find no peace
I would endure, though, and live before I leave.