Curtain Call For The Meaningless

They say

living is the point.

But if living means enduring,

collecting betrayals in the name of routine,

measuring time in unpaid debts

and unprocessed memories,

then perhaps

we misunderstood the assignment.

They call us wise

because we decorate despair

with metaphors

and call it clarity.

But what is wisdom

if not the art of sounding composed

while crumbling inward?

We crave life

as if it holds answers.

We fear death

as if it’s punishment

for asking too many questions.

And yet we dare to call ourselves

wise.

We built gods

from lightning, hunger,

and things we didn’t understand.

Then we bowed —

not from awe,

but from repetition.

We carved commandments into stone,

forgetting truth

was always liquid —

poured, spilled,

and evaporated

before anyone could bottle it.

We mistook survival

for progress.

Gave struggle a halo,

called suffering a syllabus.

As if the universe

were ever a teacher.

As if pain

ever handed out certificates.

We called it faith

when we meant muscle memory.

We called it hope

when we meant denial.

We wrapped our delusions in language,

perfumed our losses

with legacy.

And even the wise —

those artisans of ambiguity,

those architects of acceptable despair —

even they

are dragged off stage

mid-sentence,

mid-theory,

mid-thought.

So don’t speak to me

of purpose.

Speak of decay.

Of silence so vast

it unmakes meaning.

Of truths that never asked

to be worshipped.

Of questions that outlived

every one who dared ask them.

Because in the end,

all we ever do

is echo.

And even echoes,

eventually,

die.

And maybe that’s all we were —

noisy echoes in a collapsing cave,

chanting mantras to distract ourselves

from the sound of ceilings cracking.

Maybe the only wisdom left

is knowing the applause won’t last,

and neither will the ones clapping.

So we write,

not to be remembered,

but to make forgetting harder.

We perform,

not to be understood,

but to stain silence

with the aftertaste of our chaos.

And we live —

not because we figured it out,

but because

no one told us

when to stop.

— curtain.

no encore.

just echo.