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What if there is no 'what', 'why', 'when' and 'how'?

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What is there to ponder on the uncertainties of 'certain' life that we all will die someday?
What makes us unsatisfied?
Greed.
What makes us guilty?
Conscience.
What makes us love?
( if you know why we love don’t tell me because that’s not why we love)
What makes us fool?
Wisdom.
What makes us different?
Self.
What makes us slaves?
Life.
What makes us same?
Difference.
What makes us smile?
…
What makes us lonely?
Togetherness.
What makes us cry?
…
What makes us live?
Hope.
What makes us hate?
Expectations.
What makes us dream?
Realities.
What makes us sex?
…
What makes us forget?
Memory.
What makes us think?
Answer.
What makes me to write it?
I don’t know.
And what makes you to read it?
Don’t know.
no one knows, but  the 'no one knows' knows why we do it.
I’ve heard about Italno Calvino and i love his work. I ve n’t ever read any of his work until now and I’m in anticipation of reading his works someday, but still i love his work. i'vnt ever heard anything about his mastery in his thematic application of life and dream. i know Lacan and  Freud, Nietzsche and Foucault, only in the classes of theories. i love their theories and always cherish the complexities of the discourse they deal with. i'm enchanted by their theories because i'm often confused and placed nowhere in the midst of multitudes of uncertainties and my ignorance.
What makes us ignorant?
Wisdom.
What makes me to remember Pablo Neruda and his poems? i 'vnt read any of his poems until now.
Why do we live?
Why do we love?
Why do we care?
Why do we cry?
Why do we sex?
Why do we sorry?
Why do we always 'why do we'?
You were not made for memory, you are not
Youth’s accident i think but heavenly more;
Moulding to meaning slips my pen's poor blot
and opening wide that long forbidden door
       Where stands the mother of god, your exemplar.
       How beautiful, how beautiful you are!
What makes me to recite it again in to my blank pages of beautiful absurdities? May be the absurdities itself. I keep my journey along with the rhyme and lyrics of the verse- miles to go before I sleep. I see none; I hear none but my sound. I’m all alone in this vast world of multitudes, I sing I cry I celebrate I sleep I enjoy and I die. The whole world shrinks in to mine as I pass by her; what if there is no ‘I’. There wouldn’t be me and the self, but the image of death.
I found something on the grave of some body. May be it wanted to say something, but it couldn’t complete. Is it something carved by the soul mates of the dead that they wanted to say something they had to, but failed to say it? Whatever, I see it and it says –
Lady, when your lovely head
Droops to sink among the dead,
And the quiet places keep
You that so divinely sleep;
Then the dead shall blessed be
With a new solemnity,
For such beauty, so descending,
Pledges them that death is ending.
Sleep your fill-but when you wake
Dawn shall over Lethe break.
What do we have finally after all these raging of wars and money? What do we leave behind when we leave? Some words on our tomb? Or the fragmented memories where we find ourselves strange? What do we have finally, what do we take us when we leave? I have time to spend my precious time with the anticipated visiting of my readers that always ends in everlasting anticipation of visiting. nothing but visiting. Someday someone will read my beautiful absurdities and I’ll leave something behind as my own that when they read my beautiful absurdities they will begin to love their absurdities too.

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