Such is life

We complain about life,
yet we spent countless afternoons waiting for evenings to come,
whiling our mornings away in bed just cause there is nothing else to do
fretting over what other people think and say about you
and worrying about what people do not say about you
counting the years past and estimating the years ahead, mourning the shortness of life
mulling about who loves you and who to love
engage in activities that we don't seem to like, but seem right to do
considering our emotions, some of which coming from being unable to fathom our emotions
looking at the clock so that we can safely say the day is past and time for sleep
playing rpg while life plays you as rpg
Then at the end of it, we say, as a matter of custom
that life is too short;
whilst in the meantime, life is meaningless.

I need more.
So much more, that I don't have to consider what life is.