Misery is filling the air around me, my lungs inhaling it, slowly, but steadily.
It’s a usual night, quiet, yet not peaceful; dry, yet too warm to be able to breathe easily. As I’m writing these words, darkness has started settling over the horizon, leaving nothing but a pitch black view and an inkling of gloom. If I were to get up, the tiny window would allow me to see my wretched reflection; a mirror of who I am, say others, while a lie is all I can observe.
What is it like to know who you are?
To not constantly question your entire being, to feel like something else but a heart that has been shattered over and over again, a soul that is beyond repair, broken and incomplete — without hope?
I don’t know.
Demons are constantly whispering into my ears, living inside of me, taking up every inch. There’s no more space for “me”, whoever that may be; perhaps there never was.
And even when I try to reach out, to fight, to find myself, peace, sanity, — comfort, there is still nothing to hold on to.
There’s only darkness.
(I am alone. I am no one. I am nothing.)
Perhaps Death would be a kinder companion.