The Zahir

I always become like this when I read these kind of damned books. Maybe it's an attempt to feel like I understand literature that I actually don't understand at all. Or just an excuse to feel like I am actually a hopeless romantic in disguise with deeply buried emotions. Either way, this will only be temporary. I know I will just forget about all these in the next few days *rolls-eyes* Therefore, please don't take what I write next seriously unless you've read the book and feel the same way, which would mean that I really am not crazy =_=

After turning the last page, I feel that I do not deserve a piece of that bloodstained cloth from the unidentified soldier. Even though I had experienced that sense of loss for a while, it did not last. I don't feel the energy coursing through my veins, though I longed for it. It must feel wonderful. I still do not understand. However, I know that in order to understand I need to find myself. I need to first know what I really want, and what really makes me happy.

So my quest now is to journey through life in search of the answer to this fundamental question:
"What makes me happy?"

Are you truly happy?