As the night falls, and morning breaks, I look upon the skies questioning my purpose, my to-be or is/am existence.
Reading back, the few posts I’ve wrote in the last couple of months, I laugh at the behaviour, my behaviour. The sadness in my words no longer makes sense.
I’m happy yet sounding so very sad.
Struck by my very own words, I notice a pattern, my pattern. Illogical yet in fine rhythm. It’s words with no meaning, just words.
Can one be writing in happy thoughts with rhythmic tunes yet sound nothing more or less than joyous glee?