Living doesn’t make sense, at all.
Read. Read widely. The old wisdom we all know.
But reading makes me point out, chart out, find out the bad things only. The things which have been prevailing in different structures of the world for so long.
I don’t bode well when I am continuously hyper-sensitised to all these things because the natural reaction is to wreck yourself into seemingly million questions of how-can-I-change-it?
Then my brain comes into an old metaphor my mum used to exactly defined my situation:
“Like a water jug sprinkling into a bed of stones”
I feel hopeless.