Only Questions

For a long time now, I have been struggling with questions that won’t leave me alone. Today, I woke up with a heavy heart, like the questions grew overnight and sat on my chest, daring me to breathe.
It’s like a mountain of books stacked on top of each other without any glue. Pull one out from the middle and the rest come tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty. That’s my head, fragile towers of thoughts collapsing whenever I touch the wrong one.
What’s the point of anything?
Spirituality, religion, education, love, hope. Why do we cling to them if everything ends in death anyway?
It almost feels like our intelligence is our undoing. Maybe if we were less aware, less desperate to find meaning in everything, we’d suffer less. But we want meaning so badly that we start creating it, even when we don’t fully believe it. Religion, purpose, ambition, they sometimes feel like stories we tell ourselves to keep the silence away.
And oh, the silence. The silence of the universe is the loudest part of it all. No answers, no instructions. Just echoes of my own voice bouncing back at me, asking the same questions over and over.
People say we should leave our mark behind, leave footprints, be remembered but even those who are remembered are remembered by the living, until the living also die. Then what? The cycle swallows even memory whole.
I sit here, torn between wanting to believe there’s a point and seeing nothing but endless repetition. We live, we strive, we hurt, we love, and then we vanish. And the universe carries on, indifferent.
I don’t have any answers, only questions.