I write these words today, only to be forgotten later.

I breath each day, only to die someday.

I cry over broken pieces and estranged relationships, only to find solace in someone else later.

I laugh hard at jokes, I like to feel happy, only to feel like having hit the rock bottom later.

I go to work daily, sincerely, only to come back home and get back to work the next day.

I discuss big ideas and philosophies, feeling orgasmic in the sheer pleasure of an intellectual connect, only to return to the mundane routine.

I test, I diagnose, I live in the constant hope of helping as many people as I can, only to find more who don’t even consider mental health to be important.

I dream often, feel charged with a lot of energy, only to be back on earth soon again.

I love my friends, I talk and I share, only to have to move on from them.

I love clicking pictures, going crazy doing so, only to be nostalgic and low later.

I wake up daily, go through the day with the routine, only to fall asleep and awaken to the same.

I fall in love, only to experience a heart break later.

I live, we all live, only to die one day.

What then is the point? Why do I exist?

In the end, does it even matter?