I've been thinking a lot lately, am I one of them characters I always see in our great philosopher's books, or am I not. As they say, one with an open mind to culture and a continually search for the answers to the infinite questions of this chaotic universe are damned to never know happiness. I don't know if I fit anywhere within these descriptions, but I just can't think of being happy when there's the universe and here are we, a pixel maybe, within a dot in an infinite stack.
A few say that with love you find your inner peace and can settle to a kind of happiness. Others, on the contrary, say that with love you will never find happiness for it is just another way to suffer in a more 'polite' way to put it like that.
This, some great writers say, is the condition of a genius, a genius other than a plain definition from a book, a mind which exceeds it's limits and seeks the truth further than what it can touch. This truth eventually will bring the end of all minds who dare to search, this is why many fall into the chaos from which we were born, a chaos only revealed before the last breath.
The chaos.