TheVanishingPoint
Member
- May 20, 2025
- 47
We live to escape, clumsily, the vertigo of emptiness.
To avoid being alone, we cling to whatever distracts us from the awareness that we have always been alone.
We live for fading roses, for games that end, for friends who drift away, for fatigue that takes root and becomes routine.
We live for money, for three-story houses, for double beds. But money does not warm absent flesh, and beds become wide tombs when no one lies beside us.
We live for summer, and then for the next one, chasing suns that never really warm the soul.
We take a lover like we take a painkiller: to simulate meaning, to pretend that another body can exorcise the ontological frost within us.
We inhabit flesh so we don't have to inhabit thought.
We love so we don't have to think. We couple so we don't have to die — yet we do it in the cosmic silence of an indifferent universe.
Those who live for wealth do so to mute the cracking sound of loneliness.
Those who live for someone else do so to drown out the howl of their inner void.
I live with you — but I remain alone.
You live with me — but you remain alone.
And together we dance this desperate ritual, this pantomime of love, to offer ourselves the illusion of being alive. But we are not.
We live against solitude, not beyond it.
We live hoping the void isn't real — yet every gesture, every moment, every longing is the blind scream of someone who understood too late that nothing has a center.
So we cling to one another, like castaways not hoping to be saved, but simply to drown together.
Existence is a collective fiction.
Meaning, a palliative.
Love, a metaphysical morphine.
And we, conscious puppets, laugh and cry on the edge of the void, fooling ourselves — at least — that we are not alone.
To avoid being alone, we cling to whatever distracts us from the awareness that we have always been alone.
We live for fading roses, for games that end, for friends who drift away, for fatigue that takes root and becomes routine.
We live for money, for three-story houses, for double beds. But money does not warm absent flesh, and beds become wide tombs when no one lies beside us.
We live for summer, and then for the next one, chasing suns that never really warm the soul.
We take a lover like we take a painkiller: to simulate meaning, to pretend that another body can exorcise the ontological frost within us.
We inhabit flesh so we don't have to inhabit thought.
We love so we don't have to think. We couple so we don't have to die — yet we do it in the cosmic silence of an indifferent universe.
Those who live for wealth do so to mute the cracking sound of loneliness.
Those who live for someone else do so to drown out the howl of their inner void.
I live with you — but I remain alone.
You live with me — but you remain alone.
And together we dance this desperate ritual, this pantomime of love, to offer ourselves the illusion of being alive. But we are not.
We live against solitude, not beyond it.
We live hoping the void isn't real — yet every gesture, every moment, every longing is the blind scream of someone who understood too late that nothing has a center.
So we cling to one another, like castaways not hoping to be saved, but simply to drown together.
Existence is a collective fiction.
Meaning, a palliative.
Love, a metaphysical morphine.
And we, conscious puppets, laugh and cry on the edge of the void, fooling ourselves — at least — that we are not alone.
