The End of the Labyrinth of Pain – The Pendulum

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 constant. Pain is the marrow. When the pendulum swings, you taste it — bitter, sweet, fake, real. But one day, the balance breaks. And when it crashes, you’ll be left staring into the wreckage, begging for answers that never come gently.

I don’t control this life. And you won’t understand — because it’s easier to mock than to see. Your fragile world can’t stomach raw reality. It chokes on it.

I am not a byproduct. I am the cause.

The reflection in the mirror you avoid. The nightmare you deny exists. I am the version of life you silence with your distractions — dying slowly, invisibly, constantly. There was a beginning. There was a middle. But there will be no end.

Today, I see that more clearly than ever — and no one else dares to understand.

It is not pain trapped in this labyrinth. It is joy.

Joy does not escape. Joy does not bloom. Joy does not last.

There are no heroes. No gods. No redemption.

Just a snowball of choice and consequence, that cowards call luck or fate. But I know its name:

Lifeline. Mine. Etched in failure before I could ever choose.

I don’t make mistakes — I was the mistake. Don’t let the weight of words fool you. They are hollow echoes, lighter than the void they pretend to fill. I balance between illusion and agony — blue pills, red pills, empty metaphors. I live in quiet slavery — a soul shackled to expectation.

Every day, I swallow the bitterness of hypocrisy. My throat torn raw, my teeth locked to silence the scream — a scream that no one will ever hear.

Rivers of sorrow. Poetry that bleeds. Art that imitates nothing but suffering. No performance. No audience. Just the natural state of things — my nature.

I do not belong here. My presence is temporary. Fading. Measured not in purpose — only in when and how.

Never if. Never why.

The pendulum no longer swings — it plummets. Toward consequences that were visible all along.

Inherited torment. Self-inflicted torment. Carved-in torment.

You can’t save me. No one can.

There is no cure for the unbroken. No cure for natural madness. I rot slowly. Mind from body. Body from soul. No order. No mercy.

I decay because I allowed myself to feel.

And this life — this life was my greatest betrayal.

The pain wanders still — through the maze.

It wanders. And it will never stop.