We live,
whether we want to or no.
Our life or death is inevitable.
We think we can control it,
we think we can suffice,
but time steals what life we have.
We live a fleeting life,
in the dead silence of the world;
in the background of a picture,
one lives on without us.
It's in control.
Yet, as we live on,
we feel,
We live, watching,
waiting,
not living.
We live in suffering,
If you can call that living.
