Death of Oneself

Death, frost, and hopeless sight; clouds blocking away the light of life, and moments are lost within. Tiresome is your soul; bloomless is your heart. Nothing becomes your everything, and quiet is your mind.

Starting to give up trying because trying is too hard. Flooded without rain, drowning in your empty self. You wonder, when did it stop feeling like yourself? Your question echoes deafeningly in the hollows of your brain. It drives you crazy, and you wish you’d never asked. Now you know—it’s aimless to wonder. You’re left feeling like a lifeless corpse, an empty shell of a being, a breathing, walking sculpture of a human.

You realize life is relentless. It is constantly thrown at you, and all you can really do is keep going—with no breaks, no stops, and nowhere to escape. All you can do is pretend: pretend to be alive, pretend to move on.

Moment after moment, you feel the last bits of strength leaving you, subtly but surely, until you have none left. Existence becomes a struggle in itself; the lights in you are slowly dimming until everything becomes bleak in your eyes.

As a final attempt to save yourself, you gather the last sparks of hope within you. The dreadful lump that is forming in your throat is the only thing keeping you from screaming. You ask yourself if you even really wanted to scream. Maybe you never did; maybe you never could.

Incapable of expressing your despair, you are left more shattered than ever. Feeling betrayed—by yourself, by your existence—you are unable to revolt from this excuse of a life, and now you’re left in the pits of despair. Having lost all in an unsuccessful final attempt, your fears have now become truths.

“I am stuck,” you whisper to yourself. Using your last bit of reason, you welcome the absurdity of the abyss built around you, waving goodbye to any chance of freedom.