Emptiness

 I fucking hate people, dude. That’s the first thought that comes to my mind when I look around, and honestly, I’m not even ashamed of saying it anymore. I used to think maybe I was exaggerating, maybe my own bitterness was making the world look darker than it really was. But no. People prove me right every single day. They want everything for nothing, they take without giving, they demand without offering. They are just like shit, plain and simple. No one listens anymore, not really. Everyone is just locked into their own little “me factor,” the cult of the self, the obsession with their image, their voice, their likes, their validation. It’s unbelievable—actually, it’s worse than that—it’s pathetic. Love? Mercy? Peace? Patience? Those things are gone, discarded like old receipts that no one bothers to keep anymore.

I notice it even in the simplest places, the so-called “flourish moments.” Imagine a coffee shop. The kind of place where, in theory, people should relax, sip their overpriced drink, maybe open a book or stare out the window for a bit of peace. But no. Out of nowhere, they start talking shit to each other or about each other. For what? For who they think they are? For who they pretend to be? Or maybe for who they think others “should be.” It’s disgusting. It’s like there are no real choices left in these interactions; it’s just a pre-programmed exchange of ego against ego. And here’s the sick part: sometimes I enjoy it. I can’t lie. When someone gets roasted, when arrogance gets punctured, there’s a small thrill. But most of the time, the reasons behind these clashes are so shallow, so painfully empty, that the entertainment turns sour. Egos bleeding all over the floor, and for what? Nothing.

And the bigger picture? Man, the bigger picture is even worse. We live in a nation that feels like it’s going straight to shit. People are no more than walking garbage at this point. Their minds, their so-called points of view, the environment they create—all rubbish. They fill their lives with religion, with status games, with hobbies that don’t matter, with jobs they hate, with sicknesses of the mind, with stupidity that never seems to run out. That’s all they’ve got. And then they dare to call this a dream. They want us to buy into some mystical, magical joke, like we’re all supposed to hold hands and pretend this chaos makes sense. Skin is falling apart. Society is rotting right in front of our eyes. Businesses colliding. Criminals running free. Dreams dead before they’re even born. And the code—the rules, the structures that actually matter—are the very things keeping us down, keeping us docile. Misery spreads like a virus. Depression chains people to their beds. Self-pity becomes a religion of its own. And then it’s my bad, right? Because I refuse to join the choir of the damned.

Where the fuck are the colors to enjoy life? Tell me that. Where are they hiding? Everything feels washed out, drained, grey. My thoughts spiral deep, but half the time they feel like nothing more than words desperately trying to assemble into something meaningful. I don’t know shit, and I’m the first to admit it. I’m just here, sitting, standing, walking—whatever—being another toy in an empty world. A world empty of kindness, maturity, laws that mean something, gentleness that feels real.

And yet—here’s the contradiction—I’ve been trying. God knows I’ve been trying to complete myself, to piece myself together, to become a better person. Because I need it. I crave it. Not in the way the self-help gurus sell you the fantasy of “becoming your best self,” but in the raw, desperate sense of survival. I need to be more, or I’ll drown in this flood of nothingness.

I always do whatever I can with whatever is in my hands. But the truth is, my hands are not enough. They never have been. Life doesn’t throw little stones at me—it throws a fucking river, and that river takes everything. My plans, my energy, my hope—it sweeps all of it away like it was never mine to begin with.

I’ve bled like wine, staining every step I take. I’ve fooled myself more times than I can count, convincing myself that things were about to change, that I was about to break through. I’ve broken my own chains only to realize there are more chains underneath. And yet, despite it all, there’s this one raw, almost childlike thing inside me that keeps screaming: I just wanna fucking live. That’s it. Nothing fancy. Nothing spectacular. Just live.

But what does “living” even mean anymore? Is it breathing, paying bills, scrolling through endless feeds of fake happiness? Is it pretending that the little sparks of pleasure—food, sex, laughter—are enough to justify the whole miserable weight of existence? Or is it something else, something deeper that we’ve lost the map to? Because when I say I want to live, I don’t mean surviving in this garbage fire. I mean actually tasting life, feeling it burn in my veins, seeing the colors again, not just black, white, and the dull greys in between.

I wonder sometimes if people even know themselves anymore. They walk around repeating quotes, posting memes, copying identities from influencers, but who the hell are they beneath all that noise? Who are we without the jobs, without the possessions, without the performance? Nobody knows. Maybe nobody wants to know. Because the truth is too ugly. The truth is emptiness. And emptiness is terrifying.

And that’s where I sit—somewhere between the disgust I feel for people and the desperate hunger I feel to live. It’s a paradox, a contradiction, but it’s the only honest place I know. I hate people, but I don’t want to give up on life. I despise their games, but I don’t want to lose the chance to create my own. I see the world falling apart, but still, I keep searching for pieces worth saving.

So yeah, maybe I’m broken. Maybe I bleed more than I heal. Maybe I talk shit more than I create. But at least I’m awake. At least I’m not blind to the hypocrisy, the stupidity, the endless cycle of ego feeding ego. And maybe, just maybe, in that raw awareness, there’s a spark of real living. A spark that can burn brighter if I don’t let the river wash me away completely.

Because in the end, as much as I rant, as much as I curse, there’s one truth left standing: I just wanna fucking live. And maybe that’s the most honest prayer anyone can make in a world like this.