Dark moods.
Life is just a mess of human intentions: hollow dreams, feverish attempts at success.
Cogito ergo sum.
I think, therefore I exist.
The words of Rene Descartes rankle me.
If you were to just disappear tomorrow, who would miss you?
What is your existence for? Why do you even exist?
Surely our existence is for something greater than the ability to breathe, eat, drink and sleep?
Even if we do think, does that make our existence justified?
What is existence without purpose?
If so, what is the purpose of existence?
Hollow dreams, feverish attempts at success?
I think not.
Ideals, emotions?
Perhaps.