Paradoxe Poem by Za7ra Sulaiman

What curse does God befall me, that I feel nothing and everything all at once? Like a vessel both overflowing and hollow, a paradox stitched into my skin. The weight of it presses against my ribs, yet my hands grasp at air—empty, grasping, restless. Is this punishment? Or just existence unraveling in slow motion? I wonder if God watches or if even He has turned away.
What is the meaning of existence if all it does is press and pull, tighten and unravel, fill and empty me in the same breath? If I am here, then why does it feel like I am not?
That's the big question, isn't it? Feels like life is just a cycle of pain sometimes—one thing after another, barely catching a break. If we exist just to suffer, then what's the point? What's the meaning of life? To suffer?

But maybe it's not just about suffering. Maybe it's about finding meaning in the mess, even if it's just in small moments. Like proving people wrong, writing a damn good story, or just having one good day after a hundred bad ones. Maybe existence isn't about some grand purpose—it's just about making it through and finding something worth holding onto.