Have you ever wondered where Happiness was hiding; where Joy was residing; why each day resumes in the residue of a confused path reduced to aimless wandering since Purpose has put it’s dwelling in the illusive? Have you ever wondered what’s the right way to live; if there’s a right way to live; if your life has a reason or is just chance? Have you ever wondered if there is anyone out there who gets you, who would have you if they fully knew you, who makes the word “secret” worthless? Where do you go searching when these questions knock on your door, or rather knock over your door? Do you look to philosophy for solace in a world that’s godless? Do you trust the goddess of science and all her solid knowledge to demolish your solemn doubts of meaning? Or do you cling to the promise of art to polish your rusty despair into shiny new hope? How about poetry? Does the potency of verse and prose, pose as pros for opposing the curse of the perverse search of purpose as they suppose? Or maybe you get lost in the land of literature, where you litter litters of hurts in the literal fiction that free us of the friction of being misunderstood by illiterate minds who could never read our mind. But do those stories alone store enough storage of purpose to restore you to find objective value in virtue? What happens when you turn to family, friends, or society? Do people and relationships satisfy your faculties looking for intrinsic value? Or do you leave seeing through this fallacy as a fantasy? Maybe in despondency you’ve turned to yourself for worth. How did it work trying to fasten endless value together to yourself through your own fashion of thought? Did you leave grasping passion, or passing past compassion as you left gasping from the dejection of disillusionment? Or maybe when these questions come, you bolt and blockade the door from their entry? When existential doubts gently enter the mind and entreat you to envy existence you can lose your poise in the frenzy of all the noise, or you can avoid being reduced to an android by listening to the voice that never returns void.