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Loneliness is the unshakable truth we first encounter in the tranquil embrace of the womb. From the moment we are born into humanity, we seek to escape it. We hide in corners, letting the darkness envelop us in its quiet serenity. From our earliest years, we feel the need to return to where we came from, because on this lonely planet, we are never truly alone. We build tents to retreat into, seeking refuge from the world. Our dreams take shape in the dark, a sanctuary from the pain of reality. We always yearn for change, believing that once it arrives, everything will be different—yet deep down, we know that nothing ever really changes.

We set out to leave, yet the moment we take our first step forward, we are already searching for a way back. We resent the walls of our home, yet we spend our days longing to return to them. We attach ourselves to new objects, convinced they will transform us. We open new books, only to abandon them after the first few pages. Everything we do is an attempt not to think. But no matter how hard we try to escape our own minds, we always end up back in the darkness, thinking. Perhaps that is why we imagine hell in shadows and heaven in light.

We cling to our social circles, fearing isolation, yet we grieve the time they steal from us. We wake each morning to waste time, only to lament its loss by nightfall. We resist sleep, haunted by the thoughts that visit us in the silence, believing rest to be a waste—when in truth, we squander time in every waking moment. We enter our jobs with passion, only to grow to despise them in the years that follow. We endure years of schooling, resenting every step along the way, yet later, we look back on those days as the best of our lives. Humanity thrives on forgetting, and in the scattered remnants of what we have lost, we search for fragments of happiness.

Every time we long to be free like a bird, all we do is peck at the forgotten crumbs left behind. Everything flows forward, and the only thing that remains with us is the silhouette smiling back from the mirror.

Imagine a society—a realm where those who have not found a purpose in life endure profound suffering. From this suffering emerges a purpose, and with it, a so-called free will that marches in its name. The spoken words are later romanticized and committed to record, proclaiming a purpose that, though deemed immutable, shifts and evolves with each utterance. It is a culture that enfolds all, yet its consequence is to regard those, reduced to worm-like beings, with slavish disdain—a tithe extracted from bowed necks that nourishes the very purpose forged, a void chasing those too fearful to face the outcome of existence.

There are those who lie merely to echo the prevailing views of the multitude; those who, when the pressure mounts, retreat into the purpose they have fashioned—bending and twisting it to guide their way. Observe the ostentatious avenues of thieves who, to mask their hunched visages, pilfer the fruits of society’s labor; those who, terrified of thoughts breaking free, yearn for the bliss of collective ignorance; and the base toxins mingled in the spittle hurled from podiums, each drop a testament to decay.

A system asserts that anyone may don the guise of a clown—hopes painted onto faces and eyes, only to vanish with each cycle. The fools, gripped by a dread of the cold bed, risk everything to preserve the warmth of their bodies; the monkey dances performed before mirrors in their midst; the hostile stances taken against those who stray from the common lane on a busy street; the familiar privileges reserved for reflections that mirror one’s own; and the smiles on ape-like visages emerging as spoken falsehoods fade into oblivion.

Consider yourself—your actions, manipulated without intent. When night falls and eyes close, notice how the genuine thoughts behind the whisper of your inner voice gradually yield to a monotonous uniformity. Rediscover the yearning to know those truths once feared; recall the dizzying moment of first recognizing your errors; feel the trembling distraction emanating from the object clutched in your hand. Contemplate all that bars you from true thought—simply think, for it is precisely our failure to think that has rendered us as we are.