Is there a need to look further, or is it all in front of me but I’m looking at it the wrong way? I wonder why questions were invented. For us to kill ourselves mulling about the answers late every night? For us to pattern our lives after everything’s been left unanswered? I want a road going somewhere definite, yet I crave for mystery - a path filled with new wonders, with the unexpected. However I keep stumbling. I keep torturing myself with what’s bad for me. But it all feels good in a way I could never explain. I keep struggling to put it all into writing but how can you find the perfect words for something so imperfect and dangerous? I feel bent and flawed and exposed. And in my vulnerability I wonder why I’m still rooted to this spot. Is this where I’m supposed to be? There are answers that scare me and at the same time intrigue me. Why are questions so self-destructive? Are they made to slap reality in our faces? Or are they hidden guides? Do they have to be so tricky? I want something to happen - something to put a stop to all the foolishness. A quick fix, perhaps. I will myself not to write but it all keeps tumbling out. It’s like a hidden window, slightly ajar, undeniably dusty and unnoticed. But it’s the window I keep looking out of, the one I keep seeing despite it being just walked past by dozens of others. I feel like I’m constantly moving but I’m not going anywhere. Here, there, but not really. I read somewhere that the worst thing isn’t dying; it’s when you’re living but inside of you, something’s slowly dying. You don’t know what, how, and most importantly why, but it’s a definite tug, something that can’t be identified. Maybe the best things in life don’t always have to be what most perceive as good, pleasant. Perhaps the best things are what stirs up your feelings and invoke the passion in you, despite the difficulty and risks of pain, confusion. I keep going back. I keep contradicting what should be, and I keep succumbing to what can’t. When something isn’t in your possession, when something is impossible and against all the rest, you’re drawn deeper. Again with the ironies of reality. I want words to fill pages and pages, hoping it could be a release. A surrender, before backs are turned.