Remember to Breath

In a world where my peers compulsively obsess over the external, why do I turn inside? When clothes make the human, and sex is a commodity with which to create a admirable legacy, why do I lie alone and write? When my bided curiosity compels me to seek the solace so many claim to achieve, why am I left with the restless angst of dissatisfaction? Is this the plight of an existentialist? Or perhaps something even more unsavory… However, I don’t believe these words to stem from hubris or a misguided desire to rebel (as ironic as that may sound). It seems the only truth is that the pursuit of knowledge is a forsaking paradox with all questions leading to an answer, and all answers leading to a question. So why do I feel obligated to defend it?