Literature
Meaning isn't given - it's made.
Have you ever felt that pull – the urge to speak, to say something real – yet you stop yourself with that quiet, poisonous thought: “What’s the point?”.
Maybe, at first, it was just fear – fear of being seen, of being misunderstood. But years of depression, and too many nights spent tangled in philosophy, slowly carved something else into me: the conviction that nothing truly matters.
And now, I can’t stand those lifeless passions that once filled my days.
The endless books. The heavy words.
Every so-called “thinker” was just another human trying to make sense of their own mess – dressing it up in complicated language, calling it truth. Some of them brilliant, sure. Most of them just loud. All of them – subjective.
And so I wondered: who needs my opinion then?
If everything is filtered through the crooked lens of self, and if the world itself has no meaning – why speak at all?
But that line of thought… it’s a trap.
Follow it far enough, and it leads you to silence – to the idea
