Oh the ennui of it all
Is living a meaningful existence a compulsion or it follows the natural course of life?
Life, like a caged bird longing to be set free.
I, in my lonely world longing for attachment of some kind.
I reach out, I bend, I cry, I plead, but do not find a hand that reaches out to me.
Is this also, life or it is the inner torment of my heart and has little to do with a meaningful existence?
Do we attach meaning to life to make it more joyful?
Is simply existing not living?
Why give meaning to existence?
Let its futility unroll
Ah! perhaps another day I will be in a jubilant mood and find meaning in life.
I will also get away from this ennui and angst
Meanwhile, let’s play the game of life?
Hmmm, why insist?