Why is life so confusing at times? Why cant things be clearer? Why can’t that moral compass, that our particular upbringing imbibes in us, guide us better? Why does life have to be made of swathes of grey with only streaks of black and white? Why do our eyes see what we see and why do we feel what we do? Why can’t the portions of happiness be larger than those of misery? I was so sure that life was meant to be a pleasant, if not joyful, experience, one of new sights, sounds, experiences, colours – each bringing newer sensations to the parched mind. Was I so off target? So far I was under the impression that not having anything to look forwards to was the worst possible thing that could befall one. So why do I feel now that not wanting to look forwards to anything else is actually worse. What is right and what is wrong? Can there be anything easier than that? Can there be anything tougher? Are the entities of affection, love and friendship just myths? Wisps of our frenzied imagination? Are these so shallow that at the hint of the slightest tremor, all else is forgotten? Why is everything so meaningless? A blur of pale and tepid colors which sometimes seems to whiz by before one begins to make any sense and at others, limps by at an agonizingly slow pace, robbing one of even that temporary feeling of relief that things would finally come to an end soon.
