what we dreamt of was something else, not just yet another

I became a poet of the moment and the words wrote themselves. What drives me: Ambition or curiosity/drive?

As I write this, I seek answers. I seek truth. This little essay that I write, isn’t something that I write to preach, rather something I write to seek.

Falling into the existential void and wondering what “the purpose of life is” is a very human thing. Indeed, it is what makes us "conscious beings" But this made me wonder why doesn't a common man wonders: what the meaning or purpose of life is?

It is strange, that you can interpret meaning out of the utter meaningless dots and dashes of the screen that I somehow write. You somehow absurdly read it, and more absurdly enough, interpret and even understand what it means. Absurd, ain’t it.