When is a lie said with truth, truly a lie?
When is love really just a form of hate?
When is a dream a nightmare and a nightmare really a dream?
How can we know anything that is real when the world around us is but an illusion?
But we allow ourselves or maybe even create our own unhappiness.
Why?
Because it makes us feel alive.
We eat to feel alive
We love to feel alive
We hate to feel alive
We create drama to give us that transient moment to feel the center of something, anything, for but a brief single moment and then we focus on it for a lifetime.
We all need a story, how can we sit with the world around us, how can we sit with ourselves, unless we have a story to distract us from having to live with who we have become.
I am, I am…
I am the past…
I am the future…
How come no one is ever in the present?
