We are not free.
From the moment we take our first breath, we are bound and weighed by our shell, to its needs, to its every whim.

Suffering is the art of life, and we are its painter.
Death is only a means to an end, when the masterpiece is finished.

They say when death calls
you can't hang up.

When it's your time, it's your time.

I grew up with a lot of old timey sayings, ideas and superstitions.
There was always this sense of fate, of things being written, whether you believed it to be by god or not.

There was always this idea that somethings will happen no matter what you do.
That freedom can only walk so far.

I'm not sure if I believe in fate, or anything else for that matter.
But I do know that everything has It's limits, sooner or later this life will find mine.

I do tend to feel at times angry or like I've been cheated out of life, when I think about all the things I'll never see, or get to do.

But most of the time; I feel like I did what I needed to do.

I found myself, who I really am, a non binary, non gender confirming being.
I worked through years of trauma as I unlocked my memories, I busted my butt off on healing and forgiveness for myself and my inner child.
I did more in half a year than some people do in a lifetime.

That's not to say that I'm not sad about it, as I am always on that side of things.
But there is a peace to it too, like I did what I was meant to do.
I survived, that's all I needed to do.

I write for the future generations now, maybe a hundred years from now;
something I said will change someone else's life.

I do know that nothing is forever, but death and taxes as they say.
But perhaps our creations of words and songs cannot be called away, perhaps those things are forever too.

I look inwards again into that dark sea that is myself, sitting on a throne, this time holding two golden cups.
One for my sorrow, and another for my hate.
One turns to pain, as the other turns to anger, my disdain for my existence.

I pour each one out every night, but they just fill up again by the next morning.
An endless fountain of pain.
It is as if I am tattooed on the inside of my skin, as if I am marked, or within my bones perhaps, and I cannot escape it.

As though it is within me like my blood,
a crushing sickness running through me like a cancer.
I sit and I watch it slowly destroy me.
Taking away any good memories I had left.
Taking away my smile, killing my inner child.
Not one person asked for this death,
not one would die this way.

I question everything now, for what human beings have the power to create such suffering on their own?
And surely life cannot create these complexities on its own.

I feel as if I am being handed over to this thing, like someone or something wants me, something is taking me, calling me, I feel consumed by it, eaten by it.
It claims my life, my hands are tied.
There is no more daydreams, for there are no more days.

Dark my days,
Dark my nights,
Dark my soul has lost its light.

Dark my dreams,
Dark this being,
Dark its heart now lost its sheen.

Into the nothing,
Into the void,
Into the space,
Now what are you looking for?

Death to thoughts,
and death to dreams,
Death to hope for better things.

Death to me, my and I,
Death to self and things of mine,
Death to pain, anger and hate,
Death to death now there is no escape.

I tend to oscillate from sadness to anger real quickly.
That is if I feel anything at all.

Then there are days where there is just emptiness or numbness, a complete indifference to it all, and those are my good days.

My only comfort besides writing has been my thoughts, however dark.
The thought that my suffering is not forever, that everything comes to an end sooner or later.
The thought I have every night, the one that stays with me; maybe this time when I close my eyes it will finally be over, and I won't open them again.

I just feel like I am waiting on the ending of this book, the final chapter of this absurd drama, the last song in this sick soundtrack that is my life.

The darkness shows us what's real, what's true within ourselves.
The light luminates our mask that we wear.
The shadows seen is only what we want everyone else to see, just shapes and images we project.
If you really want to get to know someone; count their scars, meet them in their darkest room. Only then will you see their real face.

Rework.
Original:3/13/25

It's like I am floating outside my body,
Like I am separated from my physical self, I am here, but I am not.

It's like I'm high, but I didn't take anything.
So odd, it's relieving but also numbing,
like a creeping death inking my soul.

Allocute to me your transgressions,
and see if I am so inclined to pardon you from your punishment.
Fitting you shall lay in the filth you saddled me with.
My heart and mind will not be soiled, cry all you like, you will have nothing but that which you gave me; which was nothing.

I'm alive,
Just trying to exist in the misery that is my life.
Living lowly,
Without many things,
No friends or family that give a damn,
That would make anyone depressed.

I look at the state of the world, and I am disgusted.
Just my corner of it is disappointing and disturbing.
Most people upset and confuse me,
The only people I connect with are philosophers and Rockstars.

I exist, I live, nobody said I have to like it, let alone be happy about it.
I lead a very isolating life, I choose it now because I don't really understand humanity as a whole, or the way people do things.
Everything frankly just pisses me off, so I stay to myself however alone that may make me.

I don't hold onto life,
Life won't let go of me.

It's not anger,
It's madness from all this suffering.

I'm not sad,
I am just empty.

There is no purpose or reason for me, for being, pain only tells me that I still have a long way to go,
For the dead don't feel,
And the time won't cease.