It's something I don't have right now.
And maybe I'll never have them.
Maybe I'll always be a bundle of questions for myself that even I don't have the answers to- a seemingly never ending train of thought that has no destination.
I'm constantly questioning.
This is both a blessing and a curse.
If pondering the meaning of life at twelve isn't normal, then what is?
At thirteen I learned how merciless life can be; is that a good thing?
I questioned whether life is a blessing or a curse at fourteen. Well, is it?
Why do good people die so dreadfully?
Why are there secrets always to be uncovered?
Why does the road ahead have so many road bumps and bypaths?
When I'm sixty and not sixteen, will I still be so curious?
Simple questions and no answers.
I suppose it's the cure for writer's block.
-s.h.
