*this text was written on the 4th of May.
I'm on the plane; I know, what a luxury, and I feel once again how tiny we are. The world is so massive, and up on the clouds, you can't make any single person down on Earth. It's silly, but it feels strange. When everything egotistically revolves around humans, it's earth-shattering to feel as if not a single soul can be seen, or as far as this text concerns, really matters. I get these existential crisis every now and then, I know everyone does, but do we really exist for a reason? Or are we just passing by? Do our lives, my existence, your life story ever matters? In what way? For whom? Will you ever read my words? Will I ever remember writing them? What will happen to me in 10 years? What would be different if I didn't exist? Well, for one, you can't read this text if you ever will. I feel home sick for a place I yet don't know. And I feel like I could only find my roots there, when I'm in sync with the people I could call my own. But what is the point really? Can't I survive in any place? Probably. So what does my soul search for, endlessly? Is it adventure? Is it the thrill of the unknown? Is it the strive to make something of myself? I like being alive, this sensation, the thrive. But I don't ever wish it on anyone else. I want to have kids, raise them my own, but I don't want to birth a soul into this world. Everything is beautifully destructive. Everything. You. Me. This computer. The air we breath. The words we speak. How they lack the actual meanings in our head, when the words you use are very limited and your imagination is... well, out of this realm. I often find myself talking to myself, not in a sick-psycho way but rather giving myself some reassurances, some self-therapy that I know I need. I love my friends and my family, but no one really knows me, I feel. I feel like I don't know myself to begin with. And it's fine. That's the beauty of it, that this life, my existence, my words, my thoughts and dreams and ambitions are endless. The possibilities are incalculable. But still, the question remains. What would be different if I wasn't born? Do I hold the tiniest of importance in this universe? If a single trait of me was slightly different, will that have catastrophic outcomes in this system? I sometimes feel like I'm the only one questioning these things, everyone else seems to be so compelled with life, with the object of their desire, with their passions and drives and wishes. I'm different, yet I'm the same. I'm important, yet I don't mean anything.
Enough word babbling for now, I'll go back to sipping my smoothie that tastes like heaven and count down the hours left for us to make it to Toronto.
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