Do tell me that it makes sense being here.
Yes, I am looking for a reason, and I a m always inventing new stories that make “living” justifiable, but that’s not what I mean…
I’m talking about feelings.
Sometimes, people spend a lifetime without making sense of their lives because the object for existing, itself, does not exist. We imagine reasons to believe and distract us from the reality that is simple, direct and genuine: we, humans do not have any use when alone. Our feelings, as well as the meanings of the word “sense”, (those we try to assign unique and selfish meanings), are only connected in pairs and plural words; they do not come alone.
Their sensations are alleys that bifurcate into many branches just like in a bonfire: they come up and mix with others to turn into new branches in seconds.
One day I’ll turn myself into ashes, but I’ll not cry. Others will.
Is our reason to be the sense of others’ people lives?