We're all living one life. Maybe there will be more of them, maybe not. What happens when we die? I'm trying to put every book on the correct shelf but then there's poetry. Is it fiction? Non-fiction? "It's a genre" you would say. Exactly. That's how I feel. Trying to place big things on big shelves. Only those big things need their own shelves. But there are no more shelves. It's just this big mess in my head that has no end. Ah, we have to learn math for logic or something like that, but where is the logic of life? Of this world? Or maybe life is just a logical mess.
So my explanation of how life works - we live life and §ay things that we don't mean. We think but often keep our thoughts. We ask but rarely get answers. If those questions aren't about something scientific. I could just... I don't know what. I guess I could just live.