Questions, questions, questions.
Why don’t people ask the question?
Or, why don’t the right people ask the question?
Is it just the way of the world that the people you want to ask never will, is it your wanting that prevents it?
Should you just be showing anyway, regardless of if the question has been asked. Should you give away the answer freely? But no, I’ve always believed you should ask for answers. The act of asking its self is part of the answer.
How much do you give before you stop and say ‘No, I’m keeping this for me.’ Is there a correct amount? If you’ve given to much can you ever take it back? And if you want something in return, and no hand is giving it to you, should you steal it? (Zarathustra says yes.)
I’m so confused at the moment, and I very much fear I’m destined to live in this sort of confusion for the rest of my mortal life.
When are the meanings going to crystalize? (Maybe the answer is never, and that’s why no one asks for it. Because it’s too depressing.)
I hate it when I say things that I only half mean to people. When I say what I want to say, and not what I feel. Why am I so ashamed of my own feelings? Is it because I have to conquer them?
What’s the reward for the conquerer? And what happens to the conquered?
Ah. Questions, questions, questions.
Can’t you let me be, for just one day?
