the write riddle

I must write what I know, but I know not what to write. I don’t know what to make of this life.
One moment I feel joy to be part of this world and another moment I fall apart on the floor and I know tears. For many years I have known sorrow and war.
Is this what I know?
I must write what I feel, but I don’t feel right.
Sometimes I take delight in simple things but later on I‘m afraid about future states of mind that are unkind.
This must be what living is like for me. These are the eyes with which I see.
Are these my hands with which I write?
I must write what is real but what is there at the core?
There are stories about people, images of moments, emotions and more.
Who am I? What am I here for?
I am here to write about something real knowing then that I cannot write.
At the core there is no right or wrong only silence, no words, and no violence. No reason for writing or fighting.
Nothing exists at the core.
Does nothing real exist?
These last few days I have felt a deep sadness. I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore.

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