Every night, as I lie down on my bed, ready to sleep after the daily routine of either work or rest, my life flashes before me like sparks from a burning campfire. I feel the passage of my life slipping away, tasting the bitterness of regrets. I resist the indescribable grace of it all, seeking the identity of my own existence. Yet, sadly, it seems to be a complete void. Despite this, I still don’t want to sleep. Just staying awake feels like enough, satisfying even if, in the end, everything is empty and meaningless.
Every morning, as I wake up and face the beginning of a new day whether work or rest, the world crashes down on me like the ashes of a volcano’s eruption. I endure the complexity of the world, swallowing its gray sky. I accept the nameless force that guides it all, yet I still doubt the role of this identity I’ve been given. Sadly, it feels as hollow as before. Still, I must awaken. Simply being alive feels non-negotiable and inevitable, even when nothing really seems to matter.