Theatrics of Life

Looking around myself, into the world, everything seems alright. There seems to exist, an oscillating proportion of positives and negatives, maintaining and sustaining the perfect drama called life, which we so dearly behold. But at times, what I fail to see somehow is how and where exactly I fit in, in all of this. The more I inquire, the further I seem to move within myself, until everything seems to fade away into the distance. The classic question regarding the purpose of one’s existence, at times, comes to haunt me as well. Of course, it makes me no different from so many others, who I imagine, could be doing the same. There are times when I find myself turning the query around, asking whether the world is in fact, a perfect one. What if there exists mistakes, or to be more precise, glitches in this reality? What if I am that one loose button myself? What if we could somehow subtract me from the entire equation? What difference does it make? What if I was replaced somehow? What if someone else had experienced my life as I do, like I always have? Would it matter? Will the entire story unfold differently somehow? Would it be better? Would he or she be writing something very different, at this very moment? Or will the person be similar to what I am, pondering over the same questions? What if existence could be erased? What if memories could be changed? Life is fragile, and to be honest, seems to be overrated as well. And the trouble with philosophy is that, sometimes it can menacingly point towards nihilism. Maybe that’s just another contrasting attribute of our consciousness, the acceptance and the respect for non-existence, which is something that can never be completely understood, like in some cases of insanity, wherein even delusions can be pregnant with a twisted line of profound reasoning. The best solution to my predicament, that I can think of at this moment, is to just sleep over it. Maybe tomorrow, the theatre of this world will put forward my role, in a much clearer perspective.