One question eventually emerges in almost every therapy room, sometimes loudly, sometimes silently hidden beneath symptoms: “What is the point of living?” At first glance, it appears like a philosophical question. But often, it is a deeply emotional one. Many people who ask this question are not merely curious about
Just like each wrinkle speaks of the age I lived by Dark circles speak of the hours I have pondered over my botherations Just like the scar on the body, speaking of struggles and learning Yes, I can vanish it and make it all flawless But then I no longer
Surrounded by the chaos of the world, I have acquired the skill of finding a meaning in disorder Yeah, that’s very adaptable, but never enough Mind and heart get tired doing it all the time, and wonder If I can heal? I can heal, says the hopeful me But
Witnessing joy is blissful— The most amazing feeling one can have. Heart flutters, can’t stop smiling, Everything just feels good. But wait— That’s what I’ve heard about joy. I’ve never felt it that way. My mind isn’t trained to handle joy; All I know is
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