Nothingness—an end to a nugatory life, broken, hollow, numb, and demised. It is the wilted bud, devoid of fragrance, a promise unfulfilled, fading into oblivion. It is the dark sky, empty of a moon, a vast void where light dare not enter. Like a rock that bears no flower after the monsoon or a wilted leaf, unable to drink from the dew, the silence of potential never comes to fruition.
Nothingness is a cuckoo shot dead in Autumn, its melodious songs silenced forever, a quagmire that hopes but cannot sustain life. It is the hollowness of deserts after rivers have turned their paths, the emptiness of a house burnt to the ground, now a dwelling no more. A lamp without oil, unable to light up the dark, filters in the ashtray—cigarettes no longer smoked, their essence spent.
The blizzards on the peaks, the winds howling in desolation, but no breeze to caress the barren deserts. A well, dried up, forgotten, no longer visited. A tree chopped down, where no child ever sits. A page torn from its book, its writing lost, erased by the hands of time. Broken windows that no longer welcome the hurricane and worn-out curtains subjected to the harsh sunlight are no longer in vogue.
A pen with a broken nib, unable to write, a person in a coma, feeling no life pulse through their veins. An empty packet of capsules promises cures that no longer heal. A rock on a winding path, kicked aside by those who pass, unnoticed, forgotten. A table, once sturdy, now consumed by termites, no longer used, just a relic of the past. The naked tree in Autumn, its shade gone, its leaves fallen, leaving only the barren branches to sway in the cold wind.
Hope is gone, love is gone, life is gone. Everything has gone, leaving behind only the emptiness of nothingness. Ecstasy, agony, repentance—all have faded into the void—the finality of this existence—an endless, unyielding silence.