Screams In The Void

Fool that I was — to believe there could ever be an end. There is no end. Only repetition, disguised as progress. Only pain, reshaped, refined, and returned. I underestimated the labyrinth —its corridors rebuild themselves in stronger, crueler forms. I am not walking through it —I am the one buried alive inside it. Inside myself. The idea that life could become perfect — or even still — was a delusion for the naive. Utopia is the lie we tell children. People drown themselves in pills and pretty distractions, fooling their minds into thinking they’ve been saved —but salvation died the moment they stopped searching inside. I won’t pretend. I won’t lie to myself. I won’t be sedated by false promises. I choose the sharpness of truth. I choose the burn of realization. There is no cure. There is no escape. Life is a pendulum — a savage rhythm of agony and illusion. It swings between flowered lies and blood-soaked truths. Joy is a trick — a brief echo, a flicker, a performance. Pain is the co...

Once there were countless reasons why. Now, only a few remain.  Some strike terror into others; to me, they are stubborn warriors— fighting an invisible, brutal war from the inside out. With each passing day, month, and year, I grow more resigned to the death of perfection,  and the bitter wound of disillusionment.  A disillusionment so deeply utopian  that only I could have invented it,  clung to it,  battling doubt while inevitably falling to life’s quiet brutality. Life does not strive to be fair.  It simply is— relentless in its indifference. The end of the labyrinth of pain  is no salvation.  It is a cold, funerary procession of truths that will not bend.  It is the merciless verdict that no matter what you do,  it will never be enough. Fight harder than ever— only to lose as you always have. There is no undoing. There is no rewriting. Around me, I see hollow lives,  drifting in ignorance,  melting into dust. ...

The words died the moment I strangled my own dreams. I ripped from my chest the rotting illusion that life could ever grant me complete happiness,  and surrendered myself to the current, a broken body adrift in a river of resignation. Since then, silence reigns.  All the floods of sorrow, the disfiguring frustrations—they are carcasses left behind. When you abandon the need for answers, they appear, cruel and uninvited. Today I no longer chase illusions.  No more glorious ideals that once drew applause from empty souls  while I bled myself dry in a fevered spiral,  chasing the ghost of meaning. Today, I sow only my own bare will— and I expect nothing in return. Life teaches with brutality:  it will answer you  sooner or later— but it answers in ways that strip flesh from bone.  Hiding behind the mist, worshipping absurdities,  only births a horde of blind, alienated corpses.  And I was nearly one of them. What once bloomed in me—my scr...

There is a world few dare to see. It exists right next to ours—so near it brushes against your skin, yet so distant it chills the soul.  It was recently hinted at in public, and for a fleeting moment, I felt relief. Relief that I’m not the only one cursed with the sight. This world—this living hell—moves beneath the surface of everything.  It drags you inward like a black spiral with no bottom, no escape. A rupture behind the veil, where masks disintegrate, words collapse, and smiles can no longer bribe what’s rotten inside. It’s all gray—sickly, cracked, lifeless. A silence so empty it devours sound. Like shattered stained glass, stripped of color, meaning, pulse.  Wanderers roam it—faceless, fractured, adrift. They search for something lost long ago… maybe themselves. A way out of the twisted maze, a gasp of clarity in a fog that never lifts.  Some tear through the veil. They dance at the edge, torn between worlds. Others pretend not to notice. Most… they ne...

I remember the times I wandered in silence through this bleak, frozen street. A wasteland, three steps ahead, drowning in a heavy, choking fog. I remember tracing the broken seams between the narrow cobblestones — and from a few of them, life still dared to sprout. How cruelly poetic it was. Back then, I walked alone — always alone — and every step tore open another glimpse into the hollow depth of my existence. Silence was my only companion — my ruthless counselor, my inescapable judge. It spoke truths too raw to ignore. I bite my lips until they bleed, trying to strangle the anxiety that seethes beneath the surface, only for it to strike back harder — cornered for too long, desperate to break free. Anxiety that erupts brings nothing but destruction — sudden, frantic, chaotic. That is the hell I fight to hold back: the cataclysm of truths without anchors, the incisions that slice my skin, slow and deliberate. A thread of blood — bitter, murky, deceptively sweet. If the road to here le...

If these eyes could catch glimpses of the future, what would he have done?  If every step could have been taken without mistake, If every wound could have been dodged before it bled, how different would it all be? Maybe he would have made better choices, spoken less, swallowed words that never needed to leave his mouth. Maybe he would have learned faster, hurt slower, become a name worth remembering. He would have spared his parents’ silent tears, held onto friends before they scattered into dust, kept his own longings from rotting away. Maybe he would have prevented even one pain from sinking its teeth into him. He would have cried harder, laughed louder, understood sooner that life chooses its victims — and no matter how you struggle, it drags you where it wants. Some things might even have turned out right, if only by accident. He would have hugged his uncles, his sister, his grandmother, his dog — left a last smile before the world stole the chance to offer another. And even wi...

If the sleepless nights breed doubts, make me crumble, make me rot — dragging me back and forth in endless tides — And out there, a spiral of weakness devours the blind, all marching to the drumbeat of failure — If every hollow night fills me with a hollow hope — to leave, to appear elsewhere — and if nothing binds me anymore, if nothing even whispers anymore, then whatever I accept, whatever I believe, is already dead. I wash my face, my soul, my battered back, worn from invisible wounds, from relentless shaking. I kill the light, stare into my own face without a mask, and from that broken reflection, endless doors crack open. Mirrors of what I hate. Endless corridors. And with every sleepless night, I glimpse another death. I lock myself down. I release myself. I breathe — a hollow relief. I scream, I scream, I scream — but who cares? I stitch myself together with empty words, follow footprints I carved into the dirt with bloodied hands. I sprinkled colorful confetti over my own ruin...

Sometimes, I just want to vanish — evaporate into nothing. In a blink, abandon everything that poisons me. Everything that festers inside me. The pain in my skull throbs, swelling with the fury of a truth I can’t kill. How much longer? How much longer?! I just want to never need again. Never speak again. Because in the end, no one needs what I carry inside. It’s desolate. It’s numbing. What I feel is a hollow collapsing into itself, a black spiral devouring what’s left of me. A tornado of rage. Greed that was never mine. Hatred that was never mine. Selfishness that was never mine. And yet it cages me, chains me, silences the part of me that could still scream “enough.” A freezing deluge, heavy as an iceberg, crushing what remains. A retreat into nothingness — like a beaten animal with no cage, just the abyss erupting before my feet. Maybe I should have been a curse. A rejected afterthought. A crawling worm never meant to rise. A denied blessing. An abortion. A soul forgotten by its own...

Like bitterness pressed against the lips, it is the absence of love festering in the chest.  It is the refusal to untie the knots, to free oneself from what destroys. From the most beautiful story — of love turned to hatred.  From the prayers I once tore from myself, from tales that life never allowed me to live. If I do not feel it, it never existed. Of all the words I consumed, only lost fragments remain. I do not find myself —  I have been shaped into a clean sin,  one that amplifies my failures and sinks into what remains of my love,  mourning the ease with which I could have escaped without saying goodbye. A creation born of our fears and silences.  A distorted image of what life demands we become. But if I truly feel, I tear myself from you. And if it ever truly existed, then perhaps one day I will smile — coldly, without forgiveness, without the scars that scratch your face and anchor my steps in failure. I have long abandoned the idea of truth....

I create. I destroy. There is nothing more natural than recognizing the madness we breed — the most desperate, uncontrollable attempts to appear normal. And yet, I always collide with failure. Always fighting against what, deep down, might be my true path, my true curse. Still, I persist, only to realize there is no other road. This is not love. It is insanity laid bare, savage and raw. It is impossible, devoid of even the faintest respect. It twists desire into rejection, fondness into hatred, life into slow, rotting death. Cursed be the moment I ever dared to try — for trying opens the cracks that lead straight into the abyss. This is no love. It is a terminal disease. A conspiracy of shadows.  It fuels rage, devours the soul, snuffs out laughter, poisons every alliance. It locks you inside yourself, without pity, without escape. I feel nothing but pity — pity for these fleeting spasms of clarity. A blade so sharp it carves you apart at the slightest misstep, without a sh...