We carry a weird-shaped emptiness inside us; something we have hardly any clue about. And we keep filling it now with a dream, then some relationship, some desire the other time or some ambition or some man or woman or a friend.
We try
filling it with some external shape, one after the other. But it never gets
filled up, never gets a perfect shape to cover its emptiness.
A strange vacancy. Empty
corners always stay, making the filling objects and people unsatisfactory after
the trial at fitting. We just seek something appropriate to fill it up. The
everlasting quest. Hence the restlessness.
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