I am lost. I am badly lost, confused, dreadfully falling prey to hopelessness. People haunt and positivity too serves me poison. I don't think I can ever make to happiness again for sure all I am surrounded by is my own inner demons; angels of agonies.
Sometimes, even writing disgusts me, yet I write even when I feel at worse. I write everything, every time; if anything happens or nothing at all. I don't write, words just pour on its own, as if I have no control over them.
Like we all have something that we cherish lifetime, likewise, I only have words that are held on so dearly to e, but when nothing at all makes sense in life, even while writing, I am bothered by my own words. Strange, isn't it?
I don't know, this not knowing and knowing that I know not, is a miserable journey. It leaves you forever yearning to wisdom. Can we ever be sure of anything? Is anyone so sure out there, has anyone ever been? An immensely uncertain life, at times thrilling, but it is equally burdensome to not know anything with clarity. The only thing I know is, I don't know.
See, the level of uncertainty, a moment earlier I was totally hating life, but the despair within magically changed, fresh air swiped the dust off my heart, and I am ready to look at life with hope again! Absurd uncertainties won't leave my mental sky without pondering, as if my journey on earth is nothing else, but a mere search for wisdom fuelled by agonies of a burdensome heart.
Hope and hopelessness are mere reflections of each other. You can't be one without being the other. Happy and sad, love and hate, life and death, optimism and pessimism, hope and hopeless, light and dark all dwell within. We cannot reach wisdom without truly living all what human naturally posses.
We may hate life at times, but we can never abandon living. Even at the very worst uncertainty, life is perfectly happening, as if it knows its only purpose; living.