why does the issue of death
reappear again and again
in all i write and say?
or the problem of consciousness
or the problem of existence
and meaninglessness of it thereof?
why do i keep asking
questions starting with
an impossible 'why?'
I,
who has a couple of billions
of years of mindless collision
of huge amounts of matter and
energy
before and after my vain existence
am nothing but
a spontaneous order in matter
a spark
who has a glimpse of the universe
however simple and partial it might be,
feels pain, whatever it may mean,
for being so finite or
feeling so small before
what i saw, or i thought i saw
i want to reach an understanding of it
without why's and how's
with me being a part
yet, however insignificant it may be
i want a piece of my consciousness
to live, perpetuate,
seek what i partially saw,
hold it,
understand it fully and completely
why can't i?
how can't i?
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