To some degree, we all feel the same.
Lost, lured, left, (likely) loved.
Dressed differently, curious characters,
In a not-so-new narrative written right before beacons blossomed as boon and/or bane.
Arriving to an understanding that no one's special, the nothingness isn't new, the emptiness is an ecstasy of the endless wormhole where we are winded.
It is all familiar -- the fun, famine, fickleness, fixated on a point of pieces of peace, serene sensations of vivid voids.
We're uncertain if we're guilty of feeling nothing.
We're just here.
Saving and saved.
Listening and listened to.
Cycles of cynicism.
Plethora of paranoia.
Ignorance ignites bliss before our eyes.
Yet wisdom wins spaces surrounding our troubled thoughts.
We dream of destinations far yet fleeting.
We wake up to nightmares needy of the nuisances that nests in our minds.
We're hungry for endings yet we yearn for beginnings.
We live in instances of ironies and presence of paradoxes.
The singularity has consumed us.
The set is empty.
The state of null has been the stability.