Nihilitarianism

From the white light emerges a figure. Save me from abstraction, from emptiness, the suffocating fog. Give me shape, something to hold, to cherish, something that matters, something with matter. But there is nothing here, everything crumbles at the touch like an illusion — all fake, all lost in lies. I see them for what they are, returning them to pure psychic energy, but then the energy has no object. It just swirls around me, seeking for an outlet but finding nothing but the pieces of shattered illusions. Give me something real, something to believe in. I seek for something left in the detritus, but it crumbles to dust: dust is all that's real about them — useful only as soil for a new beginning, but there is no water, only fog, and so I open my mouth and stick out my tongue into the unknown to survive. An insect might emerge from the fog and fly in without warning, but I am starving anyway. My sustenance will not be so kind, however, and so I flail my arms running around the fog with tongue sticking out. But the insects I thought I saw where just more pieces of the shattered illusions, and no beast nor insect is left to save me from starvation.