why are we here?

this will give u an existensial crisis

I was born on this earth on September 27th, 2008. I took my first breath that day. My first cry. I don’t remember it, but it happened… that’s all I know. Some say Lord Vishnu and Brahma created this world. Some say Allah did. Some say it was Yahweh, the Christian God. And some say there is no god at all that it all began with a single explosion, a theory they call the Big Bang.

So many stories, so many versions and the truth?

I wasn’t there to see it and neither were they. 

When I was five, I thought the world was about playgrounds— swings, cartoons and scraped knees that healed overnight.

When I was ten, I believed in good karma that if you were kind, told the truth and kept your promises, life would reward you.

Now that I’m almost seventeen, I know the truth… none of that was real. The world isn’t soft. It doesn’t care how gentle you are. It doesn’t hand out justice. It watches good people break, liars win, and the worst parts of you become the parts that help you survive. It’s not what I thought, it’s colder and it never says sorry.

Sometimes I feel like none of this is real.

Like I’m stuck in someone else’s dream, waiting to wake up. Other times it all feels too sharp to fake the pain, the silence and the way people leave and then there are moments where I wonder if this is just one long illusion we’ve all agreed to live in. 

They say it’s because of karma. Maybe in some past life I did something wrong but how is that fair? I don’t remember my past life. I don’t remember the sins I’m paying for. All I know is this life. I know that I was born as a child. Who loved freely, who trusted people who broke her and who kept surviving when she wanted to give up. And somehow, I’m told I deserve this? 

They say you make your own luck. That life is what you create but how do you create anything? when you’re born at the bottom of a system, you didn’t ask to be part of it? Some are born into marble floors, sheets that smell like roses, a plate of organic food served before they even ask. Others are born into concrete and hunger into a life where sleep means curling up next to fear, where dreams are dangerous because they give you hope.

How can they say luck isn’t real when some people are given everything before they can even speak, and others learn to starve before they learn to write? They say “just work hard.” but how do you work when your body is tired from surviving? How do you build a future

when you weren’t even given a place to stand?

Not every rich person is happy. Not every poor person is broken and maybe that’s what makes this whole thing even harder to understand.

You’d think life follows rules. That if you work hard you’ll win. If you’re kind, you’ll be protected. If you suffer, you’ll be rewarded but no. The world doesn’t care who deserves what. Joy is random and the pain is constant. Love feels more like a gamble than a gift.

We hate each other so easily. Over skin, over borders, over beliefs, over who got more and who got less. We step over each other like we’re not all trying to survive the same storm.

You never know what’s next. You could be breathing right now, and tomorrow… you won’t.

Just like that.

Gone.

That’s what makes it so terrifying that life doesn’t warn you. It doesn’t pause when you're tired and It doesn’t explain itself. It just keeps going like a machine with no off switch, dragging you with it whether you’re ready or not.

We act like we know what we’re doing. Wake up, eat, smile, pretend but no one really knows anything. We just follow the scripts we were given. We lie to ourselves and call it truth. Most people are selfish. Some are kind, but even kindness has edges now. Even love feels like a test you weren’t told how to pass.

Wealth.

Fame.

Love.

Betrayal.

Health.

Death.

It’s all just a cycle 

No way out. No reset button and we’re expected to survive it. To smile while drowning, to keep going, even when the light inside you has already gone out. 

They say there’s meaning in all of this.

But most days, it feels like we’re just shadows wearing skin, playing parts in someone else’s dream.

They tell you to study hard until 10th grade

“Get good marks,” they say,

“Secure your future.”

Then they push you into college. More grades and more pressure.

“Make us proud.”

Then they throw you into a battlefield competing with lakhs of students for one seat in one university that’s supposed to define your worth.

Then, again… compete.

For a job.

For survival.

For respect.

Then they tell you to settle down.

Work 9 to 5, Count your leaves, Ignore your dreams and Then they tell you to settle down.

Forget you were ever more than a machine.

And one day they hand you a cake saying “Happy Retirement.” As if you ever really lived.

Then— boom.

You die.

But then what?

What happens after?

No one knows. Some say heaven, Some say hell. Some say you’re reborn… a new body, a new story, some say the soul lives on,

Others say there’s no soul at all, just neurons shutting down, a blackout with no dream.

The truth is, we don’t know. We don’t know if we’re in a simulation. We don’t know if there’s a God. We don’t know what happens when we die. We don’t even know how consciousness works like how the hell are you even aware you’re “you”? We pretend we do. We hold on to beliefs like lifelines because the unknown terrifies us but deep down, we all know the same thing: One day, we’ll be gone and the world will move on. 

That’s when it hits you… the whole point of life might just be to die and everything in between

is borrowed time.

Some people will tell you:

“You’re here to find purpose.”

“You’re here to serve God.”

“You’re here to evolve, to suffer, to love, to learn.” But here’s the truth, as raw and honest as it gets: No one knows. Not the scientists, Not the priests, Not even the people who act like they have it all figured out but maybe that’s why you’re here Not to know, but to ask.

Not to have answers, but to create meaning where there is none. Maybe you’re here because someone needs to read your words.

Maybe you’re here to make someone laugh on a day they were planning to die. Maybe you’re here to break the cycle that broke you.

Or maybe you’re here for no reason at all and you get to choose what that means.

We don't know why we are here. 

And yet…

we live.

Even knowing the ending, we still try to make the middle beautiful. We still smile, We still fall in love, We still laugh at stupid jokes and cry over songs that remind us of someone.

We wake up to skies bruised in shades of blue and purple, eat food that tastes like comfort,

watch shows that feel like home, hug people who make the world a little softer.

Even in a world ruled by power, twisted by greed, driven by people who forget what it means to feel. There are still moments that are so achingly beautiful, they remind you why you're still here.

Maybe I don’t know why I’m here.

Maybe I never will but there is blood in my veins, breath in my throat and silence that hasn't swallowed me yet.

And maybe that’s enough.