Rivers of Reflection: Navigating the Depths of Existence

 My mind resembles a river, flowing through constant interrogation. Whenever it strays from its course, society deems it mad. What am I to do? What path should a spiritual being, trapped within the confines of a physical form and burdened by memories that refuse to fade, tread in this vast expanse of the future? The heart of the river no longer mirrors the sunlight, nor does it echo the night's mournful cries of the moon. It stagnates, unseen by those who leap over its surface, deceived by its deceptive calm. How foolish are we, seeking tranquility in the stagnant waters of a river that has tasted the bitter sting of destruction, all because we were coerced onto a path not of our own choosing?

The river believes itself awakened by distant screams, only to realize it has been within those very cries countless times. The cause outweighs the effect! How much harder it is to wallow in sadness than to revel in joy, to grow rather than remain stagnant, and to receive love rather than bestow it. Destruction weighs heavily upon us. I am devoid of a saturation point! God's hand plucked me from oblivion, leaving me to mop up the tears of a childhood innocence left unfulfilled. But these tears are not born of creation; they flow from existence itself, the very cause of destruction.

It is a fallacy to believe that middle-aged men rush merely to reach a destination. All my opportunities seem to vanish amidst these days of obscurity, where I fear the very breath I draw, a consequence of the irreparable damage wrought upon my body by the pursuit of a tranquil life. Yet, I no longer seek the stars lost in the vast expanse of the sky. Today, I awaken from a state of resignation, realizing that the world chased after me, and I won't mourn what I've left behind. This was my body's response to the injustices I've inflicted upon myself.

Exhausted from believing I am undeserving of each breath, that sentiment persists. Neither I nor you deserve it. We are not entitled to mere existence but to truly live. Fate should not dictate a life of beauty; my existence should be as vibrant as the words I pen in solitude each passing month. This is the antithesis of living.