Nightmares

Uncertainty is haunting me again. Maybe it never left. Just dormant. Just buried. Like a recurring nightmare that comes back every other night. Just another chapter of fear in a book with crumpled pages. And everyone is gone. One by one. Slowly. And they keep leaving.

What solitude creates is a hardened callus of rancor. Rage turned inward. Inexpressive. Untouchable. Immortal. Memories don’t heal—they only numb. Brief flashes of what once pretended to be family, friends, purpose. All of it now reduced to a void inside me, enduring as long as I keep breathing.

For some reason, life still insists on me breathing. Or—enough—there is no fucking reason at all. It’s just the fact of being here. Drag yourself through another year. Drag yourself through another dream that will dry up like everything else around you.

Poetry? No. Not even close. This is testimony. Poetry is fiction. Self-deception. A bitter aftertaste. None of this is poetry. The knife cuts for real. The skin feels it. It bleeds. This isn’t a story. This isn’t temporary. There is no happy ending here.

You see. You question. You don’t understand. You refuse. You revolt. Out there, people reach things—goals, dreams, purposes. Or the illusion of purpose. At least that illusion sedates the mind, fabricates a counterfeit love. Fuck it. Why keep chasing the unchaseable? I’m exhausted from this endless tug-of-war.

Sometimes I think about subtracting reality. If I can’t be whole, I refuse to be half. If I can’t give my maximum, why force it to suffer with the scraps I manage to offer? I turn against myself. You don’t deserve it—and I know it. Life put me here, and I have no explanation. None. Unfortunately.

Certain uncertainties. My tragic film. Everything leaves. Everything dissolves—except time. Relentless. Cold. Intentional. If life doesn’t kill me, time will. With pain or without it.

I don’t even know why I write. To those who should matter, there’s a veil—blindness, avoidance, disbelief. You only see what suits you. A wall of messages carved by a worn-out soul. A portrait made of words that say nothing. A field of nothing. To you.

Today I don’t know whether I’m searching for a beginning or an end.

Today I don’t know if the end is the beginning.

Today I don’t know. I don’t know today.

I am exhausted by myself.


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