My quest for meaning is still endless, yet it's always in my heard and never my head.
It's in the deepest parts of me, yet never comes out enough to be recognized by my intellect.
Is it actually there? Or is it my own created fiction?
Am I simply running away in my head? scared to face reality? scared to face this world? so i just create one of mine in which all is well? in which i feel safe?
The trick is, it can never be safe. It just can never be. why can't i ever live with that?
Why does one has to fuck things up so bad in attempt to just make it better? or do i ever know what i'm making out of it? actually i don't mind my fucking it up ... but do i have to know that i'm fucking it up while i'm doing it??