The Whys

Whatever's going on in my own world, I don't explain it to anyone at all. I wander back and forth through my apartment muttering to myself, like some hoopoe bird: "Why?" But why don't we love the ones right beside us, while we keep hunting for someone else out there — someone dressed in Prada, or with a nicer figure, instead of the one who stayed loyal to our shared dreams? But why do we sometimes stop believing in ourselves, more often exactly when we need it most? You're no dumber than some Jim Carrey character, and if you don't agree with that — well, too bad. But why do we stay so indifferent to someone else's trouble, their smiles, their thoughts, their needs? Our clever, burnt-out little souls, it seems, need more of a rush — helping is just so boring. But why does the noise of money drown out the heart's own notes, knocking through the night till you can't rest at all? Who's there? A hundred grams of sweat, and you, gagging through the spasms, can't fall back asleep. But why, oh why are we all such why-askers, raging on and on while God tells us not to? The sky shrinks small — a gift for a handful of martyrs, but the ones who keep their faith, he won't leave empty-handed.