The Weight of Meaning

If everything we chase is just a shadow on the wall, And every answer leads to questions we can't answer after all, Then why do we keep searching for a meaning to defend, When maybe life's just living 'til it comes time to end? Do we love the people near us, or the comfort that they bring? Is authenticity a virtue, or just another role to sing? When everyone's performing who they think they ought to be, Can anyone claim they've met themselves authentically? If time heals every wound, why do we fear the scars it leaves? And if we're more than memories, what happens when nobody grieves? Are we the choices that we make, or chances we let pass us by, The words we speak with courage, or the truths we let die? When does hope become delusion, when does patience turn to waste? How do you know you're living life, not just killing time with taste? If happiness is fleeting and suffering's guaranteed, What makes a life worth living—is it love, or just the need?