'Why’ - The Question That Never Ends

Why? I ask.

Why does the heart feel full one day, and hollow the next?

Why do some spend their whole life building, only to feel empty once it’s all built?

Why do people leave when we need them the most?

Why does silence feel heavy in a crowd, yet soft in solitude?

Why does love sometimes hurt more than hate?

Why do the ones who give the most, often receive the least?

Why is truth so difficult to say, and lies so easy to wear?

Why do we smile while crying inside?

Why do we ask for freedom, yet fear space when it comes?

Why does death arrive before the goodbye is ready?

Why do questions pile like stones, and answers float like clouds?

The why does not exhaust itself. It only deepens. And no one teaches you how to live here, in the absence of answers.

You are taught how to seek, how to chase, how to accumulate meaning like objects. You are taught how to build ladders, philosophies, futures. But no one teaches you how to sit, how to remain steady in uncertainty, how to rest inside the pause before becoming, how to stand unarmed in the wilderness of not-knowing.

We inherit the hunger to understand, but inherit no map.

And perhaps that, quietly, is the map.

Because the question was never meant to be solved. It was meant to ripen you.

Mystery does not arrive as a riddle demanding intelligence. It arrives as a presence, silent, unannounced, almost indifferent to your curiosity. It does not ask to be experienced. It does not offer explanations. It simply stands at the threshold.

You open the door. It does not speak.

You wait. It does not move.

You question it. It remains untouched.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the one who is questioning begins to thin. And, at some point, there is no one left asking why. Only awareness standing where the question once burned. This is the quiet reversal few speak about: that obsession with answers keeps you at a distance, but intimacy begins the moment you allow yourself to become the question. Not to interrogate life, but to merge with it.

To stop trying to explain the sky and instead dissolve into its vastness. To stop interpreting silence and allow it to erase the interpreter. Some traditions call this a path.

Others call it pathless.

But in truth, it is neither movement nor arrival. It is subtraction.

You do not go forward. You loosen what you are not. You drop borrowed identities, second-hand beliefs, rehearsed meanings. And when the seeker collapses, what was sought stands revealed, not as an answer, but as an undeniable presence.

A strange paradox unfolds:

The more desperately you seek, the further truth recedes. The moment you stop, it arrives without permission. The closer you come, the louder the question burns,

not to destroy you, but to purify the false center that was asking. And what you were searching for all along was never ahead of you. It has been quietly witnessing from behind your eyes.

some doors are not meant to open,

some are meant to be sat beside,

with your back against the unknown,

breathing surrender instead of certainty,

not all paths are roads,

some are undoings,

some are dissolutions,

some are not paths at all,

only the soft echo of footsteps

returning to where they began.

The why remains.

Unfinished.

Unanswered.

And yet, something has settled. Not clarity, but trust. Not understanding, but intimacy with the unknown.

I continue,

not chasing answers,

not knocking harder,

but standing at the threshold,

allowing the question to hollow me,

until there is enough space,

for something wordless,

to breathe through.

© 2025 Beyond Silence.

A note from the listening silence. Please credit respectfully if shared.