Three powerful letters
W
H
Y
Are firmly stuck in my mind.

Why do I exist?
Why do I feel?
Is the world real?
What does the world ‘real’ even mean?

I blame myself for asking too many questions.
Why can’t I just live and be content with my existence?
Why do I need to question everything and doubt my reality?
Why am I obsessed with this relentless inquiry?

Like a program stuck in an infinite loop
I keep scrolling through the list of my questions.
Why am I never satisfied with the answers?
What is the source of my unrest?

I envy children and and I envy the insane.
They plough through the world without asking questions.
Was I happy when I was a child?
I don’t remember.
Am I on my way to become insane?
If so, will I be happy then?