Why is it that we feel things? The feel of feelings is just impossible to
put into words.
Why is it that we crave for something and when we
get it, we repel it? We mistake happiness for sadness and sadness for
happiness.
Why it is that sadness gets prolonged and happiness
dies so young? We tend to mourn the end of happiness.
Why can’t we celebrate the end of everything rather
than whining? We fear being alone with misery.
Why can’t we confront our fears? We are too afraid
of losing the battle of life.
Why, with time, questions become shorter? In life,
we run out of words.
The feeling of loneliness, the feeling of being
helpless, the feeling of despair, the feeling of sadness, the feeling of
choking pain, the agony of feeling; where do they come from?
Why aren’t there any answers for every ‘whys’? We
keep on asking ourselves questions and we know we won’t get any real answer
except for lies. Why is that so?
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