Jet lag.

I learned early on to stop asking questions. It seems so irrelevant, the "why" behind the "is". Maybe this mentality is just another form of escapism, of taking the easy way out. Maybe it's a form of survival, of self-preservation, self-defense. Personally, I find actions to be more informative that thoughts, which explains my aversion to psychology, though not so much my love of philosophy. But I can reconcile this. The former pertains to the mind, the latter, the soul. Perhaps philosophy is what lead me to detest questions, for of all the times I asked them, I almost never found an answer. In one way I lament this; in another, I'm relieved. Sometimes there's no answer better than no answer. When digging, it's admittedly frightening to plunge the shovel into the dark mess and immediately clank upon something solid. Oh the irony of insecurity. She craves affection, but once she recieves it, she feels empty, hollow, void. And yet when she provides it to another, which in her case, often requires her to drain herself of energy and emotion, she feels fulfilled.

As I write this, I don't believe in the soul. Or maybe I do, I just don't trust its infallibility. To believe that any part of oneself exists after one perishes requires a great leap of faith. Frankly, I am not ready to make that jump, without the knowledge that a spiritual net exists. So I write these words to protect against my potential transience, fleetingness, nothingness; an insurance policy, if you will, that guarantees at least a trace of permanance, if not immortality.