No one ever asked, "Why are you here?"

No one ever stopped, not even for a fleeting moment, to ask me—while pointing to the world—“Why are you here?” No one had the chance to even breathe. Like everyone else, I was dragged ceaselessly from one place to another. They kept my mind perpetually occupied. I could not think; I only acted, merely to salvage the moment. Perhaps I repeated this thousands of times. Even I could not grasp what was happening. I would close my eyes; suddenly I found myself transported elsewhere, in another place. Like a massive passenger ship, I was not steering it. I had been crammed inside merely as a passenger, and thus, wherever the captain directed it, I was forced to arrive there as well. And still, within me, I carried the unfulfilled weight of that question. I was not searching for a reason. I was merely waiting—for someone else to affirm that, out of thousands of planets, millions of galaxies, and perhaps billions of universes, I happened to be born into this one possibility—thus granting my existence some semblance of fragile reality.