Everything feels like work when you don’t like what you are doing. This is what we have been told all the time. Even the menial thing we do to exist feels like a chore, that we need so much strength to accomplish it.
No one has a one-shot solution to this. Each one of us bears some reasons that may not find weight to others estimation.
Life is one dreary toll. Everything about it is a tool provided so we can continue existing and moving through the cycle that we were programmed for since the beginning of time.
You are but one spec in this wide universe, insignificant and dispensable. You do not leave prints that can change the course of human existence. Unless, you are able to find a way to reverse or stop the unavoidable fate that awaits everyone, impending death.
Dreary toll of existence is all this is unless we find a meaning for it. And yet finding that begins another addition to the cycles that we find ourselves in, consuming us, sapping out our energy until we succumb to merely existing.
Existence likened to the a driftwood, no direction, no foreseeable fruitful end than to be swept ashore only to be washed again by the waves of senseless fate.
Dreary toll it is.
Stranger Than Life 