The End of the Labyrinth of Pain – The Beginning
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 screams, my deliriums—smothered the fragile spark of true hope. They sucked from me the strength to carve a path my hands could grasp, my heart could believe.
I fought a war where the only side left to win was my own—or there would be no side at all.
I no longer beg the past for glimpses of happiness. The past is now a graveyard of sleeping memories, a silent trail, already swallowed by time, and time, that merciless guide, leads us all to the same end.
When I spilled my anguish here, I buried myself deeper, gagged by my own hands, drowning in endless conflicts that gnawed at my marrow, trapped in a spiral hell of my own making.
A labyrinth of pain—its walls fed by my own weakness. Only by tearing through the chains with disgust and contempt did I finally feel the stones crack and crumble.
The dust has settled.
My vision—scarred, bloodied, and stripped raw finally clears, and for the first time in an eternity, my gaze is steady, cold, deliberate. No heroes. No villains. Only survivors.
Every step forward drags me further from that cursed prison.
The Screams—my old poisoned crutch, my black acid, my torment—age and wither, taking with them the monstrous voices that once shredded my sanity. Perhaps one day they will return, not by my weakness but by the cruelty of circumstance.
I pray they rot before they reach me again.
Still, I visit you—out of duty, out of scorn, out of the cold understanding that you were necessary, so that the wasteland ahead could have meaning.
The chains twist tighter.
The beginning of the end is no salvation.
It is a slow, inevitable collapse.
And I walk toward it with my eyes open.