If I was meant to survive,
to torment myself with the pain I inflect,
why is the life still making me breath?
If my destiny is to be lost,
to ache for the dream of flying,
why does the life keep me on this earth?
Is it that we humans still love to be hurt?
Is it that we find the confort in the suffering?
Is it that when we cannot have drama, we invent it?