032
It's okay. It's not, but it is. Because, in the end, nothing matters. Somethings—most things—matter. But they don't, not really. Because the question is always 'what is the point?' and I can't find an answer. When I do something, I do it because I must, because I should, because I have to. I do it because it's a good thing, an appropriate thing, a reasonable thing. But, in the end, what is the point?
What is the point of everything I went through to do the right thing? What is the point of the love I bled out, when everything meant nothing? What is the point of anything, anyway? What is the fucking point?
What is the point of a heart that beats and a mind that thinks and a tongue that speaks, when everything disregards this creature of thoughts and hopes and fears?
What is the point of me? What is the point of an existence so pointless? What is the point of a question so meaningless?
I'm tired. And I don't care. Not for an answer, nor a question, nor anything.