Every single day the sentence “I want to kill myself.” enters my mind. Sometimes it’s just the once, sometimes it’ll be at multiple points; just the thought, the imagined phrase “I want to kill myself.”
I am but a product of my environment. This nihilistic abyss of postmodernity. A world without meaning, without purpose, without reason, without a point. The bleakness of the massed grey weighs down upon me like a tumour. “There is no escape.” a part of my mind whispers, “Nothing can be done.”
My broken physical form screams to me, Mocking my very being. “You will never be free!” it jeers. “You will always be weak! This is your fate!” It points and gleefully laughs as it turns back downwards, twisted and crippled, bare and noticeable.
I detest the noise around me. All of it childish, stupid, simple, dull; energy bouncing off of the celling and the walls for no reason. Serving no function but to irritate and prod. This feminised freedom, this promiscuous, depraved chaos. I hate it. I hate it all.
The world is formless, horizontal; my inner state mirrors it in near-perfect symmetry. This depressing notion of gravatic emptiness, pulling the whole of existence downwards to infinity.
There are, however, specks of diamond in this vortex, which gleam and shimmer with light occasionally as they spin around and around the central column. Like sparks of lightning, the stars or even embers; the warm unity of Being is still visible, albeit perhaps only through a fractalised lens; one side up, the other down.