Quite feels like the exhaustion's kicking in to the point where thoughts fail to manifest in written or spoken words any more.
I feel like I should tear myself open, but I do not find the strength or courage to do it. The walls keep closing in.
Mind departs from the body, I am in third person. The eyelids are heavy, and my reflection quite surreal.
Is it an obligation to life to suffer? What is objective, reasonable amount of burden? Do I keep stacking them on myself? Do others just have broader shoulders, girded loins, and an intact mind?
My mind's a map of scars, and the paths are inane loops. Where to now? What to look forward to?
Classic yet useless questions, for they will always remain unanswered. Not that there would've been an answer to begin with.
Even typing is a tedious task. I will dissolve back eventually, we all will depart, we all will eventually end, alone. We will disappear, bit by bit, and it's unclear what the concept of self even was.
I long for beauty, but I walk on desolate plains covered with dying leaves and ashes reeking of feces. My scorn mindscape slowly grinds and wears down that hollow path.
Words are not enough. Nothing ever is.
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