Existence is bleak, a contemplation of its own.
It is at fault, that we are born with the idea something within is missing.
Addled with it is the human brain, conscious insanity disguised as a mind true to its own.
And it asks for what it cannot comprehend, the silence.
What not does a human do to bring this balance that's weighing all that there is?
So much so, joy had to have pain.
Within has to have without,
You had to have a I.
A solace so amusing, so is the order of things.
That there's monsoon, what it has to have?
The pain is cruel, when you understand they are metaphors to the other humans you so seek, to her.
Beautiful, yet no closure.
The human condition.
And there's anguish when you perceive beauty all around, there's pain equally to be felt.
In that, knowing all of sun comes from far away to fall upon you, and you can't look at it.
All this rain that befalls, much of them escape your eye that beholds.
That the winter winds come strong when you stand aside, not on its face.
All of this, the noise, they hurt your senses.
All of this, your mind contemplates.
And this is how the existence lives through you.
It has to have you. It is the idea of what's missing within.
Each observing the other, there's a midway here, where there's silence understood, there's acceptance.
This is where the opiates take you to, the drugs you dabble, to dull the senses that are screaming.
You light a smoke, hoping to split the time itself to stay longer here, with every drag sulking the sanity as much as you can.
Some people don't understand what's missing in each of us is everyone else.
The existence experiencing itself.
A singular mind as such, often beautiful and broken, finds itself spiralling into destruction.
Some people, cannot accept that if not beautiful, it is right to be flawed.