What does it all mean? Every now and then, it taunts me. Pokes me. Sneers at me. Reduces me to nothing. A silent voice in my head that beckons for more; in life, from life. Telling me that I have it all, but then I don’t.

It’s not about shuffling my deck of ingratitude. Thankfulness resonates in every move of mine. But am I not allowed to question? To probe at that silent voice that sets forth an all too familiar set of actions; of sulking lips, furrowed brows and a restless heartbeat.

Is it that I don’t write enough? Or try enough to extract meaning from random symbols? Pray enough? Or deep enough to connect with every word I  speak of. Is it that I play it blind? What good is sight in a world of blind people?

Is it that I find people inconsequential? Their worries inane. Their feelings fake?Because those who have genuine problems, don’t stand naked for all to see, but clothe themselves with dignity. Because those who really feel, don’t need to prove anything.

Is it that I love making excuses? For myself and from myself. But then those who don’t, DO. And I have my excuses, so I don’t, DO. I fear anonymity. I shiver at fame. But I crave both. And work for none.

Is it that I smirk at life’s predictability? Where people die, lives go on and nothing truly matters. Where as long as our stomaches are filled with greed and thirst, everything is justified. If everyone is right then who is wrong? And I am right, but why do I feel so wrong?

Is it that I despise ego? But even more so, those with none of it? Yet I have tons of my own. Enough to make me draw meaningless conclusions and point my fingers the other way. Enough to disappoint myself. The most.

Is it that I don’t matter? Beyond what I am supposed to do, or say, or think. Because there is a lot that I am supposed to do, while a lot that I’m not. So where does that leave me? Forever in self-doubt. Forever confused.

Is it that I don’t believe in standards any more? Of beauty. Of success. Of piety. Of evil? Standards are about limits. But you can’t limit beauty. Or measure success. Or restrict virtue. Or cage sin. So why stoop to lowly levels of definition? Why not rise to infinity?

That voice hasn’t gone away yet. I don’t think it plans to any time soon. It will continue to knock on my dormant existence, making sure I don’t die without a question in my head.

And God knows. Like the rings in a tree, I have many questions.