Life is driven by a monochrome film. It is monotonous. It is cyclical. It is redundant.
What little pleasures we sought are nothing but mere shadows of what reality is. For we do not understand our purpose of existence, we try to turn to the world for answers. But we know that we are only fooling ourselves because the world, too, is in the same situation as we- confused and unsatisfied.
We fill that hollow with pride, break the cycle with daring things and excite the monotony with adventure. But what is life really? Is it nothing but a jaded representation of what ought to be worthy and pride, but now destroyed and nothing but a shell? Is it supposed to be a preparatory stage? Or is it nothing but a passing moment that doesn't really matter in the vastness of our universe?
Questions, questions that need answers continue to plague us. And the monotonous cycle shall always continue. What is life really?
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