On the outside it’s different.
On the inside, the eternal struggle is the same.
The loneliness.
The unanswerable Who am I?
The even worst Why? Why me?
Why to keep going?
Even more important How?
How to keep going?
Where to get the strength from?
Within your soul…
My soul is dry. I don’t believe in the soul. I don’t believe in the spirit. I’m a chunk of meat… a very complicated chunk of meat. A cluster of nervous impulses, just some unexplained, unaccounted, idle bursts of electricity on my brain…
Just like pain. Just so exactly like pain, no “real” reality to it, just ions moving around my head…
Just like pain. I am as real as pain. The whole of life is so much like getting thorn and looking at the tiniest drop of blood on your finger, and wondering: How could this hurt so much?
I hurt all over.
Always have.
What’s the point?
Where is the point?
Here, at the tip of my finger…
But I still don’t understand.
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