We are starving in a land of plenty. Not for food exactly, but for meaning, for truth, for something that actually nourishes the parts of us that don’t show up in blood work. We scroll and scroll, feed and feed, stuffing our psyches with processed outrage and artificial virtue, hoping it will fill the emptiness. But it never does. It can’t. Because it was never meant to.

We aren’t dead, but most of us aren’t really living either, not in a way that feels awake, embodied, or connected to anything beyond the next dopamine hit. We’ve become performers in our own Truman Show, scrolling through curated illusions while our deeper selves drift quietly out to sea.