I sat down to write, my fingers poised over the keyboard, unsure of where this passage would lead. I wanted to comment on the ceaseless appetite of consumerism—the way people frantically acquire and discard the latest trends without a second thought. But who was I, with my smartphone and fast-fashion wardrobe, to criticise anyone?

My prose began to unfurl, describing crowded shopping malls full of dead-eyed shoppers grabbing objects off the shelves. The words flowed as I depicted the feeding frenzy, bare human impulse overriding any rational thought. Yet, the act of writing felt equally mindless and consumptive. With every sentence, I fed something new into this bottomless text, sending electronic fodder out into the virtual universe.

I started to question my intentions. Perhaps by adding to the overflow of content, I was contributing to the same collective confusion I aimed to critique. My thoughts veered into the absurd: If a tree falls in the metafictional forest and no one reads it, does it make a sound? I chuckled at my philosophical ineptitude, forgetting that I alone inhabit this navel-gazing habitat I have conjured up.

The writer writes to be read. And the reader reads on, taking in these words without knowing if they supply any sustenance. Both of us are trapped in this transactional feeding frenzy, unsure of what needs are being met. After all, I am only talking to myself. And yet here you are, reading this, making my reflections real. Consuming them as quickly as everything else in our ravenous era. Participating in the shared delusion that any of this can satisfy us.