We hear her sing, and are drawn to her beauty,
The songs, it seems, is why she lives.
But I wonder, does she know why she sings?
Better yet, does the bird even know that she sings?
The flowers, they blossom,
The trees, they stand tall,
The lion, he roars,
The antelopes, they run.
But I wonder, do they know why they do these things?
Better yet, do they even know that they do these things?
Mankind is plagued by a many of these questions.
Mankind wants to know who (s)he is,
Mankind wants to know what (s)he is,
Mankind wants to know why (s)he is.
And so, (s)he wonders, what does man do?
Better yet, why is (s)he so?
These questions plague my mind.
I find unrest in the solitude of my bed.
I can’t fathom the meaning to my beating chest…
The company of others often serve to further echo the lonely words of what, perhaps, I find to be a worrisome truth, that this quest, this quest of meaning, is the plague of our kind as the buck is plagued to fall by the lion’s claws, or whatever it is that nature chooses to cause.
Perhaps, again, the other creations just simply go on living without having an inkling as to what, where, how and why they are here. That they simply just are — beautiful! And as such, mankind should simply go on — without encumbering him/herself with the thoughts of this peculiar plague — and live.
But, me too wants to know, what does it mean to live?
Photo location: (Flower) in my room.