Paradox

Paradox. 

It’s the thing that clings to us, even when we don’t ask for it. A puzzle without a solution, wrapped in the trappings of our daily grind. We're told life is meant to be lived, to be experienced, yet with each breath we take, it feels as though we’re slowly suffocating. Every step forward, a step into an endless loop. Who we were and who we are are distant echoes, separated by time and choice, like shadows that stretch and shrink without warning.

We chase answers as if they’ll bring clarity, but all we find are more questions—more locked doors. The more we seek, the more it slips away, like sand through our fingers. There’s always a part of us that feels just out of reach, something we can’t quite grasp, yet the second we stop reaching, that same emptiness comes rushing in. The more we want, the more we lose. The more we run, the further we are from the finish line. And yet, stopping to rest feels like surrender, like admitting that this chase, this madness, might never end.

Nighttime offers a brief, deceptive peace. The world quiets down, but the mind? It never sleeps. It’s the same paradox again—sleep is supposed to offer escape, but it only brings more questions. We close our eyes to find solace, only to wake up and feel the weight of it all again. The daylight comes, and suddenly we’re forced to wear masks, to pretend that we’ve got it all figured out, even when the truth is that we’re all stumbling in the dark, hoping the next step won’t be our last.

And then there’s the other. That phantom that haunts our waking hours. In dreams, they exist in full color—vibrant, alive, real. In the daylight? Nothing more than a fleeting thought, a fading image that slips through the cracks. We chase them like ghosts, grasping at the idea of what we once had or maybe never had at all. The paradox is clear—so close, yet never truly here. The distance between us stretches like an endless horizon.

The world outside doesn’t care. It moves without us, indifferent to our struggles. We seek meaning, but it seems to slip further into the distance with every step. Life is a cosmic joke we didn’t sign up for. The universe, vast and cold, swallows us whole, and yet, in that vastness, there’s this strange beauty—this chaotic, unpredictable beauty. It’s like trying to find purpose in the storm while realizing the storm is all there is.

So we keep walking. We keep searching. We keep falling into the same paradox over and over again, wondering if it’s even worth it. And maybe it isn’t. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re not supposed to understand. Maybe we’re just meant to exist in the contradiction, to find meaning in the absurdity. The paradox is us. And we are the paradox.