What is emptiness?
An illusion conjured by a weak mind to shield out its weaknesses, a byproduct of a numb heart that fights off further scars, or the inescapable dungeon that you randomly fall in?
More importantly, how real is the feeling of emptiness; how more real is it, than the purported real world that's little more than a bunch of colours and sounds; or how less?
These are the questions that a heart lost deep in the tunnels of emptiness churns out to keep itself occupied, half-sure it can't really find an answer. It doesn't need an answer, though; all it needs is an obsession to feed itself, and a thought that feeds on it. All it needs is to fill some voids.
As it wonders, the question grows, fuelled by itself, blotting out anything else. It grows to fill out the long-formed voids, wipes the wiry cobwebs and whirs the gears of free thought back to life. It grows, filling the empty spaces.
Where is the emptiness? Had it been real?