Where Are We?

These past years I have been having this talk with my best friend about the meaning of my life. Why am I here? Why do I feel useless all the time? Have I been doing things that make this world a better place to live? Or have I become an ignorance grown up instead? I wake up each morning, having my daily breakfast with bread and coffee, then go to work. I do what I have to do, being busy all day, getting all chatty with colleagues, sometimes I jog, sometimes I hang out and have some drinks with friends, sometimes I go straight home out of exhaustion, and most of the time.. I feel nothing. I help none, I make zero effort to make this world a better place to live. It makes me feel so worthless, hopeless, and sad. My life has no meaning, and when I die, I die for nothing. Death is a friend of mine, I think about it all the time. It used to scared the shit out of me at first, but I started to get used to the idea of stop living . It somehow can sound better than anything mundane I ...

This has been such a devastating week, I feel like I lose all my balance, my strength, my hope, all the courage I have in me suddenly disappeared in the face of domestic violence. It's real, it's sickening, and it's right in front of me. It is much different and way much worse than you imagine it could be. Who needs love when it hurts more than it pleases? Who needs love when all it offers is fear? Who needs love when all it can cause is pain? And above all, you cannot call it love when what is shown is far from the act of love. I went all weak, I couldn't sleep, I feel anxious all the time. My heart beats really fast knowing a monster lives around my family, and my family allows him to. You simply cannot cure a person when the person does not want to be cured. I may have never been in her shoes, but I saw what I saw, with my own eyes, and nothing  about it can be justified as the right act. I said, nothing . I wish I could put into words what I have in min...

" Buddha teaches us the art of cheerful despair." I came across the line above a few days ago. I don't remember where, but it must have been from one of the Stoic books or articles I've read these past months. I've been blogging forever until one day, I decided to quit, simply because everything about my life had gotten so personal, and I didn't think I was ready to meet the possibility of having people talk to me like; " Hey, I read your blog the other day; I'm sorry for what happened. " It happened several times in the past, and I finally said to myself - No, you can't do this anymore. People need to talk to me personally to know what happened with my life with me. I realized that I tend to get too overwhelmed by the idea of writing out my feelings, so quitting writing publicly sounded like a good idea back then. Otherwise, I would have gone mad thinking about how detached I could become from myself. But it was then, not fa...