Answers We Have Been Searching for All our Lives

This life, in craft that was supposed to be beautiful—but the charisma of regret that has us plagued from the moment we come into this world. I have, for the majority of this plural life, tried to question things that always moved me, and in each act that lead to the next.

I woke up, brushed me teeth but I forgot to wear that smile, today and yesterday—but did it matter? There has been, for majority of this breath has already been defined. My cloth, the cotton that no longer looks at me like it used to and every step is nothing but a cry for the previous one that could have been something else.

To say that everyone is happy is as intimidating as asking of the butterflies to swim, but the depths of our imagination is flawed, and we are—but strangers in a box, making up for everything that we have lost. I do not know, but have I asked or cared to search, the human next to me who suffers. And suffering is, but a beautiful thing, no one ever mentions or asks of.

Knowing that grief is knowledge, the temptation that overflows every time an adult takes his own life. And pity on the rocks that were the last to listen to his cries when no one did. There is nothing to it, but the quietness that has us walking like robots. Are we any different than the rocks?

And everyone will ask of you—why have you not made it to the top, or why are you just so different? Or why can’t you just be like everyone else?

But the question, no one ever talks of—or mentions of on their social media pages. The rhetoric’s of this life, I fail to understand—but what I know most is that nobody will care if you stop breathing. The definition of chaos, for the elaborate crowd has forgotten, and I—nothing of me makes me not think of it.

We think we are having fun, but the very definition is somewhat misunderstood. Some just lie on bed whole day, with no contact with the outside world, and that is just a fun-filled day for him compared to the persona who went out into the dense crowd, talking about everything that is, but could never be.

The reality, there is nothing left of happiness that could please, but the onset of a suffering approach, one that begins with the individual who, for the greater part of his life, has to master in each act that has been fashioning him.

There is no answer, but the person reading this. You have made it this far, with everything that tried to bring you down. The clouds that steal water for you, the birds that always leave grains for you and the tides that always shift your moods—it is who we are and there is no denying the very cause that lead us to it.

So as I write, and if I fall—know that it was never meant to be, but the mind that had to play along. It’s what is left of tomorrow and today—nothing is.

-Yogesh Chandra