I’m perennially filled with a desperate yearning for everythingness and nothingness

 

Is this the way everyone has always felt?

 

If we collectively acknowledged this uninvited inhabitant, would life cease to have meaning or have more meaning than ever?

 

Are we all fated to be stalked by this spectre of inadequacy?

 

I haven’t summited the zenith of power, intellect, beauty, and I feel certain that if I were to I would feel no less empty

 

I hear the joy is in the ascent.

 

When the breath of exhilaration is fresh 

And there is endorphins and excitement in the climb

 

And in the prospect that people might not only like you, but intuitively understand all that we cannot articulate

 

That that which we like is nothing more than that which most wholly wipes from our view the void above which we dangle, suspended like marionettes

 

Even addressing the void by name is a form of escapism from it

 

The naïveté to believe that our rudimentary spoken, written, and symbolic representations can begin to encompass the unencompassable

 

I think we’re all just finger painting stick figures on the night sky

 

Maybe that’s the meaning

 

To make our impression in the next act of the charade that we’re not all as empty to the core as the atmosphere of alienation in which we exist

 

From void you came, and to void you shall return