The meaning of life is always brushed aside, as though a puzzle too complex to decipher, a book too mysterious to indulge in or a far off conundrum whose only internalization was partaken in by our fathers of yore. Like all mischief, rather than reveal itself, its purpose is seldom found.
What then can be said of those who still inhabit it, who still walk these long corridors — looking if only for aide or luminescence in a world that offers none. There is limited comfort and nourishment to be found in its alleyways, its walk ways too cold and damp to trudge through alone. Many a soul have found themselves on this indiscriminate path, that knows no class or social station, that lets not innocent children alone as it shapes and molds us in its forks of pain until we soldier it on to the next unassuming victim.
Who are we, then, that even as the sun’s rays is spun all round us, it warms not the coldness that resides in our hearts? To carry on and groom our exertions, our afflictions and our agonies, who are we? What is the intricate meaning of all this — that my burdens and torments shall be passed on to my children, and to their offspring thereafter. To continue on would therefore appear too cruel an endeavor, yet we still trudge on, we still hold on.
