Why life?
I have always wandered
through the question of why —
as if meaning were a shore
everyone else reached
while I kept drifting.
Meaning is relative, they say.
No two hearts hold the same weight.
What makes sense to you
slips through someone else’s hands.
No one is fully understood.
We speak, but never arrive.
For me, meaning hides.
The world feels stitched with lies —
truths that fracture on touch,
certainties that fold under scrutiny.
Nothing stands whole for long.
Everything can be undone.
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At times I am drowning,
not violently, but slowly —
sinking deeper into the unknown,
where even the dark feels unfamiliar.
They tell me time heals.
It doesn’t.
Time only passes,
watching quietly
as wounds learn new shapes.
They ask me to be happy,
but never explain how —
as if joy were a switch
I forgot to turn on.
Relationships strain under distance.
Another’s perspective
is a country without visas.
We circle each other,
close, but untranslated.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Life is unbearably long
when spent in loneliness,
in endless reflection,
listening only
to your own thoughts echo back.
