Night, it’s dark, or is light, away from the noises or with our silence, nothingness. We question life, our existence and or feel dead. Dead as in alive yet immobile, unaware of what lies outside, or inside, a blank conscience, an unfeeling brain, unaffected by time, uninterestingly also called sleep.
What intrigues me is a questioning mind, one which fear, not the darkness of night, but the one inside; lack of knowledge, about time and life. Don’t you fear? Being alive, away from his touch, or being as near to him as this shirt on your body. Who knows, it might be the closest thing to us, and might take us away from the ones we call close. Isn’t it terrifying? Our plans with our loved ones might end with a car crash, and the promises we made with tomorrow for enjoying happy moments will die. Regret is what we will feel, when it’s near; when we will feel the death of nerves; muscles wont react, reflexes will fail to act, brain will search for the cause of pain, all in vain, for it would be death forcing our soul, half outside and other half inside, clenching the sheet or ground, trying to hold, wishing for more, a day more, to live the happiness we stored, for the future, and some other day, or some other night. But death isn’t known for being kind, there he will be, our soul’s wrist in his fist, being dragged on the ground, away from our body.
But it doesn’t affects me anymore. Maybe because I am afraid of other questions, or I am not afraid, distracted, maybe. How much am I alive? I am not talking about death now, I am talking about life, and how much do we live, to fear death so much? These questions consume my mind.
Who am I and wherefrom I came? From heaven or from hell, a devil or an angel, or am I mixed breed; a bit of devil and a bit of lord, a human is what I named myself, might be a fraud. What is this pain that I feel, not on body, neither inside, but in this thing called brain. Oh wait, how do I feel, wherefrom it comes and where does it go, why can’t it stay? Or does it stay, in memories, snaps of time. But why do we cling to the sad ones and what do we really live for? What is this life and what is this void? Is it only me who feel empty, or I am just another soul. It’s time to sleep and not question, but we only question at night. Maybe we find silence unusual. Who knows what will silence my mind!
Do you know? Can you tell me explain these things I feel? Or can you help me think more, and find these answers myself? Can I ask you something if you don’t mind? Will you tell me what it is, to be you? For if you have answers, you have questioned it before, and if you have, I want to know I am not alone.
The Puzzle Maker