Questions

An article, maybe even a poem about one's intriuge.

As I lay, restlessly, but yet, still, concentratedly, full of veneration, I wondered what the meaning of life was. I was in doubt of my bland answer so all I could come up with was bagatelle.

So instead i sought the answer to this, why is man in a constant race against itself?Battling arduos blitzkriegs. Overcoming a major conflict only to meet another that was generated from the solution of the last.

Why? Why does men ask questions? Why can't he/it/we just take life as it comes, no reaction, nothing?


Intriuge.