The best kinds of books are the books that make you think. And change. The kind that drag you out of your comfortable life and lead you to make a new decision, lead you to a string of new thoughts and ideas. The worst kind of struggles are struggles with identity. How are we supposed to know who we are? So many questions with no many answers. My one problem is the lack of large, tangibly real problems. My problems can never be solved because they are never acknowledged, and therefore, never understood. So they stack up; questions that aren’t answered and conflicts never resolved. What I strive for is wisdom; understanding. But these are futile, foolish dreams that can never be accomplished. The choice between blissful ignorance and a yearning curiosity has already been decided; there is no option. The rest of my days must be spent blindly seeking sight, poring over the mysteries without attaining resolution. It has already become my life’s work; a work with no end, a job never done. But my path is chosen, and no matter how hard I know I will try, it will never be finished. That is the center of all human acts and beliefs; that no matter how how we try, we will never be satisfied, that there is no end to time or space. Small satisfactions never last, our journey doesn’t end. We aren’t able, as humans, to perceive and end to our lives, an end to our world. We create in our minds a prolonged journey, an eternal afterlife with eternal beings. We ask ourselves, when the universe ends, what comes beyond? What is next? You see, we cannot see, nor understand the concept of an end. We turn inside ourselves to find the truth. We create the truth for ourselves, and in that, we become the truth. Our stories become our truth.
