Entry Seventeen.


The void.

No light.

No life.

No will to live.

Nor the courage to die.

Too lazy to feel self-pity.

Too tired to despair.

Caught between no life and no death.

Marching without advancing.

No front, no back. No north, no south. No breath, no mouth. No word, no silence.

No up.

No up. No up. No up.

Of course, no down. But no up for sure.

Not even loneliness. You have to feel to feel lonely.

You have to know what it is not to be alone. You have to remember.

You have to long for company. To want to share things with another. To want to have and to hold.

But when you've come down such a long way. When you despise yourself. So much. That. Youdon'twanttosoilanotherwithyourpresence. When you ? Hate. Yourself ! To the point where hatred isn't even a wordable feeling but becomes a concept transcending all human emotions. Just the sheer raw notion of hating so much that the hate materialises like a blade. And as it is yourself you hate so much you have no choice but to point that blade on your chest and plunge it into your heart. Except that it doesn't kill you of course. Concepts don't kill anymore. They used to. When things you could think mattered. When one could kill for ideals. Nowadays you just die for them. Sometimes. Mostly, you just die because you lack any choice in the matter. Concepts don't kill no more. Metaphors do. And the image of the product they sold you death with.

Hatred goes beyond all that. Especially hatred of what you have done. Or will do. They say love kills. And everybody knows that to hate is to love. Kills.

When you have reached the bottom of it all, when you feel so diseased that you prefer (un)complete (loneli)ness to the risk of contaminating another living being with the contact of your soul.


Then, you are really, utterly and irremediably lost.

Lost in Oblivion.


to be followed...


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