I got home to my grandfather's house yesterday afternoon and was looking for a notebook I had left in my old computer bag when I found my half brother's journal, I don't know how it got in there and why I even had it. After his funeral, he died in December of 2007, we cleaned out his place and a lot of his things ended up in mine, but I got rid of a lot of it, maybe I just wanted to keep it, I can't remember. But apparently it was his most recent one because of some of the events he wrote about... and I'm thinking I found the last thing he ever wrote. It made me think about a lot of things. The poem I posted a little while ago was a result of reading some of this. The way he wrote a lot of things in this sounded like he was planning to kill himself a long time before he actually did, because it's like he was writing it to someone else. Anyway, I just wanted to share this with others to see if it makes sense to anyone other than me... I feel like I'm going crazy sometimes.
All the punctuation, grammar and spelling I left the way it was written. I don't know if it had any special meaning or not.

"Questions... are all we have. They're all we're ever given. We have to find the answers ourselves, because, if we're given the answers, the questions mean nothing at all.
We are questions. Who are we? Why do we live? What is the meaning of our lives? Only, we are questions without answers, and questions without answers have the most meaning, we are mysteries. Never ending, misunderstood, under appreciated, contradictive, misinterpreted phrases that end with dot dot dot.
So if the questions are answered, what's the point of living? If we find the meaning of life, do we end it? If we find our names, do we forget them? Life is a game, play to win, play for keeps or play for fun. The name of the game? Hide-and-seek and destroy.
So content in the midst of our lies to make things ugly into things beautiful, beauty becomes obsession, vanity becomes death. Plastic expressions, fake smiles, no one minds a beautiful lie when it hides the ugly truth. That is where the question lies, what is truth? Is it the lie that becomes truth or the truth that becomes the lie? Reality questions itself, what's real, what's fake? Are we real? Or are we someone's imagination gone awry? A vast dream only dreamed by the dead or the sleeping. How do we know that we are real, how is reality perceived in the eyes of a dying man? Does he see all things beautiful, or does he see everything for the ugly truth that is hidden beneath? When death comes, do we know all things or will we haunt the world still seeking the answers to our immortal questions?
Life is a question as to why it exists, do we belong here or was it a mistake, the difference between Creation and the Big Bang, was there a purpose for our existence or are we the outcome of random events? Even death is a question, is something beyond this life, this primordial-physical existence where the lowest of cockroach lifeforms claim humanity, consume, excrete, reproduce, and expire? Does something wait beyond or is it a dark nothingness that erases us all? Does the human soul exist or is it just our desire for immortality that makes us cling to hopeless beliefs? Do we even deserve souls? Are we that much better than the creatures we drive from their homes to build our Utopia of Lies upon? Maybe a dark hell waits for us all in the end.
Life becomes so repetitive, so daily routine that it becomes habit. You find yourself questioning yourself, everyone else, the reason you push yourself so hard for nothing at all. For happiness that doesn't exist? Just the illusion of feeling good. They enslave us with commercials. Mass media brainwashing to sell you something else you don't need. Anything that breaks the cycle, anything that makes you feel alive they call addiction, then force you into submission of normality, of acceptable. Then back to the routine that drove you to the addiction in the first place. Lather, rinse, and repeat.
Death as the end? But the grave marker is just another question mark. The beginning of another end that will infinitely begin another and another and another.
We live a sitcom with no plotline, no script, 'Who's Line is it Anyway?' kind of life that just doesn't make sense. Our actions planned on note cards, written in by the audience. Censored so we don't offend a minority that probably wouldn't care anyway. We act like fools on stage to provoke a laugh or two, roll the credits so we don't get sued."