Breathing in the invisible air,
Something that keeps the body alive,
Why is that so involuntary, just like our birth.
I often think, knowing nothing at all about everything, is it fair?
The questions that root within us,
Flowing through these nerves,
Rushing to our brains to form an understanding,
To make sense of the chaos of this curse.
How would you define life!?
If defining self is so complex?
Have you looked in the mirror and seen the mirage formed by your thirsty brain?
Only to make it all meaningful, cz unanswered questions pierce in it like the knife.
Hushing down and lowering the loud questions into whispers,
Locking them down in the prison of mind,
Gives a silent birth to another self,
Born with traits in the shadows that brain covers.
It’s not a choice to face the existential crisis,
It never was, not even to be born.
All just seems like mere synchronised form patterns.
Not sure if that makes us pawns or something more liberating, they’re all just mere theses.
The nature though, exists along with us it stands
It’s beautiful to watch the ocean, like the water really knows its purpose.
The trees reaching out to the sky, like little girls singing along.
Somehow they all just seem to know the truth about the questions we don’t understand.
Probably it’s the fact that each of the elements know, they survive because of the other.
The fact that humanity’s struggling to digest,
Cz in the darkness of the self importance, we’ve lost the connection.
It’s only matter of time that we realise, that we’re just beads inside a kaleidoscope, dimensional reflections of eachother.
Being happy will help? Was that our purpose?
Or we’ll spend more ages till extinction to understand the true nature of existence?
All just random perceptions of how it makes sense to one direction of sight.
How can we just ignore, there must be the king of this circus?
The multiple versions of the Same story,
Each trying to shout out their truth.
About the meaning of life and understanding of the existentialism
Yet each seem still soaked in their own gratification and glory.
Where it all ends is what we fear of all the time,
What we have to lose to be holding the fear,
Its said it’s the phobia of uncertainty and unknown,
But isn’t that how we lived our entire life calling it fine?
So where to begin?
All the stories stitched by our brain,
To which the soul sings the tune of the wisdom.
The little imbalance in it and a stubborn will to exist, thats all keeping us going within.