Why
Is it past the age where you can ask why for granted, and ask again and again: why? Looks silly?
Why do you feel lonely when you see stories imprinted in your mind?
Why do you feel so confused when you hear things drifting past your ears?
Why do you think my question is idiotic and speechless? Why weren't you like this before, but now you're like this? Why are my problems getting more and more and only going to increase?
Why do you bother day and night because of a novel that no one cares about, even if you don't update it every day, but that heart is always hanging on it? Why would you conceive the plot while sleeping, when it is clear that you are not sleeping well?
Why do you want to tell you all about your past that maybe no one else cares about? Why do you sometimes laugh at yourself as a joke?
Why do you care less and less about how many readers will read your article? Why are you writing and writing that you are happier?
Why did you become so blank later?
The only thing that is blank is white!
Why do you like nothing more than a wry smile and then just silence? Why do you smear yourself and belittle yourself as much as you like when you are confused?
Why do you like things that don't want others to know, and hide them and keep them expressionless?
Why do you keep telling yourself: what is reality? Is it something to step on hard? Why can't it still withstand reality?
Why do people live?
You say, since they've all come, you need to have a good walk!
Why is it not day and night in a day?
You say, because God is colorblind.
Why does everyone like something that everyone likes?
You say, seek a sense of existence.
Why is the sinking fish and geese describing beauty?
You say, because the fish and the geese are so beautiful.
Why don't pigs go up trees?
You say, because it is disdainful.
Why do you have so many why?
Because that's who I am!
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