It baffles me. My heart starts sinking at the very thought of this question. It is essentially an interrogation of my days, my years, my life or more precisely my existence at all. I am unable to gather strength essential for such a grilling. Have I been a mere corpse for all these years? Am I real?
Hobbies, they say, is enjoyment. Did I unknowingly crack my enjoyment into obsession?
I have been reading and writing for years, and always considered it as art. It was as if I owned a key to perfect gallery of most beautiful paintings in the world. But the balloon has just ruptured. I have nothing; I never had anything. It wasn’t fine art, but gibberish rants of an incoherent soul. How could it be selflessness, while it was all about me and myself?
Has it all been worth it? Is it worth it?