If else.

If you gravitate towards angst, you know some things..

Like how impossible it is to stop thinking about what you’re thinking about.

When the flow of thoughts is impossible to stop,

Sometimes the same ones over and over again.

What is the point of this obsessive torture?

Why do I remember, reiterate and formulate?

Why bother?

Why write?

Words, words, and more words. Words just keep on coming.

The feeling of not being able to stop is overwhelming.

What is the point?

I still don’t know and I suppose that is the point of it all.

The point of living.

The point of feeling.

What is the point of anything?

I’ll go to my grave still wondering.

One day all that is left behind is a humble and painful stream of consciousness.

And all that it meant.

To prove that I once was.

It’s my contribution as I’m standing on the shoulders of all those that gave before me.

All the poets, writers, artists and thinkers that had no other way, no other means of escaping the heaviness of their own weight than to express.

Sometimes they were tortured, imprisoned, censured or killed.

A state of complete honesty.

This curse is called art.

When speaking is no longer enough.

When thinking is no longer enough.

We write.

We sing.

We paint.

We imagine.

We play.

We love.

We hate.

We die.

Not because we want to.

We have to.

Writing.

Thinking.

Wondering.

Asking why and finding no reasons why.

We are here.

I am here.

You are here.

Until we’re not.

Then we are gone.

And everything we ever felt is erased.

or

All the things you saw.

All the people you met.

All the thoughts. All the questions why?.

All the tears,

Were never shared.

So that’s it.

Share.

Give.

Contribute.

If not for you,

do it for the rest of us.

Your journey mattered and I want to know it.