Why?
I know not.
Why,
becomes a sound I simply forgot.
Why,
becomes nothing.
Becomes what.
Becomes how.
Why,
becomes everything absent the ability to know how.
Why?
One wonders absent the idea.
Absent the ability to see what truly is.
For,
why is not profound.
Not a thing in which the human knows.
For,
as that in which exist as human dives deep into the abyss,
such an existence creates absence.
The absence of why.
The absence of being able to know.
To comprehend,
to grow.
To tether oneself to that in which one shall always know.
To be more.
Why?
I wonder as I type.
Why?
I wonder if I exist as alive.
Can I breathe,
truly?
Have i ever?
Do I think?
Am I actually writing now?
Is this me?
A me that matters,
that has form.
Am I or was I born?
What does it truly mean to be me,
if tomorrow i could be no more?
Why?
©lamarcus12
L