Six months may sound like a long time. After all, it represents the passage of half an entire year. Still, time (and math) can be weird: while 182 days (approximated half of 365.25 days) can mean the entirety of the existence from a 2025 newborn, to me, it's just 1.65% from my entire biological lingering. As time slips by me, this percentage decreases: after 1.65% of my existence passed by me, 182 days now represent 1.62%, and it'll keep shrinking. It'll never reach 0%: it'll be my biological existence that will reach the Zero Threshold first, when I am (hopefully and finally) harvested by the cosmic entropy.
So, 182 days didn't just pass by me: 182 days *flew* over me. I was ran over by time itself, like a dry leaf lost amidst a highway, bearing the massive weight of endless, transient vehicles, incapable of running away from the highway as drivers are unaware of its existence.
What was achieved? Well, the search for a meaningful place have been happening since immemorial times. The count was lost on how many places were once tried, to no avail. Three decades ago, an unknown extraterrestrial crashed on Planet Earth, brought by uncontrollable cosmic forces, and such a galactic guest couldn't find a place to belong, nor they could find their way back home (wherever their "home" is). Such an alien usually speaks in the third person, passive infinitive voice, simple-past/present-perfect tenses (sometimes gerund), as if they were alien to themselves, because their own existence have been struggled to become a meaningful place *per se*.
As a half-a-year converges to <1%, the world converges to meaninglessness, emptiness, coldness, loneliness, otherworldiness. It's something beyond a mere "take a breath, take all the time needed, things will eventually get through", they don't, it's just "lying to oneself". Also, "Touching grass" seems pointless when the grass doesn't touch the betoucher. Walking leads to nowhere when there's nowhere left to go. One can't fit a square peg inside a round hole when the square root of two times the side length from the square is not smaller than the inner diameter from the round hole. In other words, one can't escape a pit when their height is infinitesimal compared to the depth.
Considering the average lifespan from an average human around 80 years, more than one third is gone. And part of it consisted on the restless, pointless attempt to fit in a place, to seek meaning in a meaningless universe. You meet an unknown person, only to have them become unknown again, ending up being even more unknown than they were at the beginning. You fall in love with someone, only to realize how a free-fall always meets an insurmountable ground (and it's often hard-solid like rock)... Even orbiting (falling without reaching the surface) eventually meets the hard ground: satellites eventually de-orbit due to orbital decay and atmospheric drag.
Loneliness and lack of mind-likeness have been long accepted, yet it's still lamented inside. Love have been long understood as an illusion orchestrated like a biological conspiracy by bodily instincts (reproduction), cerebral addictiveness to neurotransmitters (especially oxytocin and dopamine), social compliance (*nods to Derren Brown's documentaries*) and cosmic mechanics (gravitational forces compelling mass to attract and be attracted by other mass). Childhood has been long understood as a immutable petrification from the past, now part of an immovable river dam that makes it hard for water to flow (if there's any flow at all).
Six months may sound like a long time, and it indeed is: an eternity slipping by, by the blink of an eye. An eye perpetually overcast by clouds that can't rain anymore, blinded by the darkness of a fading existence, suffering from a reverse glaucoma: for whenever you stare at the abyss, the abyss stares back at you, and the low-pressure from the cosmic void always pulls high-pressure from an artificial terrarium. Not even light can escape from a black hole.