I’ve been thinking a lot about simply existing, existing in a world in which I cannot define nor wish to define. I often find myself lying in bed, at 3 am, completely in awe that I am here, now, in this place, blinking, shifting nervously, in this body, in this air of thought that only I experience. We are all born into a silent world, a world where there exists a hierarchal struggle between the human mind and truth. I often feel as if the soul is forever confined within this hostile world where indifference precedes the mercilessness of human nature. Life’s absence of meaning seems to remove any reason for living; yet, it is this lack of purpose that presents humankind with true freedom. It is a fruitless argument to relay the notion that life does not exist, as I am unable to prove it does not, yet it seems my own sanity is contained by the thought that my reality has limitless tangents in which I dictate the directions and perceptions of each stream that is solely secluded in my mind; my mind in which only I am able to construe and abuse. Why do we fear thought? Why do we fear the act of thinking and knowledge more than death? Humanity has a disastrous habit of passively accepting the mundane actions of life where there is little room for subconscious contemplation.
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