In my soul, I have drunk of sorrow, the blue coolness that seeped through all my chest; I have tasted the emptinesses that were sharp, and those that were dull, the black tastes of those nothings. I cannot say that these were friends of mine, but I might feel that I know them well, and kept company with me in their own way — however much sensations themselves can be said to be alive. As I continue with this process life, I find that I have stopped asking why, and didn’t notice the absence, for the effect was the same whether I placed the question before me or no, that the cosmos would only answer if I myself wrote it in the ether. In fact, most of the questions now that I ask I know only my eyes will ever see, the only one who will ever care that such seeking existed.

I do not know what I expect, anymore. Things happen, I realize things, but I feel like the chapters of my life are merely copied and pasted, altering the small details of time and other minor attributes of placement; there is nothing new under the sun anymore. Is this what it is like to get old? Is this what dying is like? I know I am only half serious, but that half is deadly. I know in my heart that I prefer meaning to any pleasure, but I will search out whatever pleasures I can and take the meaning only if it happens along. This is the unreliable narrator that I am in my life; I cannot trust me. In my soul, there is a tragedy that will never be written, for the words cannot reach it. But it is there, staring at the darkness and the light, wondering that “why” it will never ask.