Screams In The Void

This is a long night — one of those that refuse to end before the sun returns. And in these sleepless, endless hours, I find no answers — because there are none. It’s in these hollow stretches of time, while I question my desperate attempts at happiness, that I lose myself the most, fighting against the borrowed theories of joy I hear around me. My head weighs a thousand tons, and inside me, a void — vast, unfillable. And in some strange, senseless way, I close my eyes, trying to understand the reasons life gives me — if such reasons even exist. I know this space will never be complete, never whole — like a puzzle missing its final piece, the single fragment that would reveal everything, and bring an end. My hopes drift aimlessly, day after day. I ache for the end of this waiting — for all the questions without a period, for the moment when life would prove itself worthwhile, and meaning would finally appear. My dream. I feel as though I have found an oasis. From afar, I watched the mo...

Simple. I count the days I still see you  as if they were borrowed seconds from a dream I was never meant to wake from. Like the rain that falls not to nourish— but to remind you the sky is still capable of weeping. The memories we share  linger like the final breaths  of something already dying— a future too blurred to name,  a present fading,  and a past more real  than either of us ever were. Letting you go is slow death. Loosening my grip on your fingers  for the last time,  watching you vanish  back into that distant city— and knowing I am not allowed  to follow. What else do you want  from a heart caving in on itself,  from a soul that has learned  how to scream without making a sound? The goodbyes grow colder. The memories turn foggy. The bonds unravel. The paths dissolve into wind. Would you even try to follow me now? After all the times I left the door open  and you stepped through like a stranger? ...

When the winds rise, they carry the cold like curses.  Seeds left thirsty rot in silence.  A crooked smile — always a lie. Perfection is just the moment before collapse.  Love poured in violent floods spoils the tenderness. Sunlight? A slow-burning death beneath the skin. If I don’t lie, someone will — and worse.  Doubt comes like a convoy, crushing the will to conquer. To feel nothing is to be already buried.  Without trust, I’ll never carve my name into forever. To give freely is to bleed later.  One day I stand on skulls, the next I’m swallowed by the dirt. Lights that shine too brightly scorch the eyes until they darken. All wounds rot into scars, and none of them forget.  My words mean nothing — you don’t hear my soul. If I can’t believe, I exist without dreams. My fears don’t kill, but they shackle every step. Love without respect is a slow death, bloated by ego. Ignore my cries — you erase my worth.  Hold a rose too tightly, and the ...

A razor-thin edge between fleeting joy and relentless torment— where peace detaches from thought,  and drags me back into a choking thread of despair. It pulls me under, into sleepless nights,  where distant echoes churn inside my skull, denying me rest, denying me repair. There is no cure for this condition. I’m lost— marooned in a mind that tears itself apart. My body crumbles, my mind collapses, and I toss the dice, begging for a reason to breathe again. When I say I won’t write about love inspired,  it’s because love dulls the blade of my fear,  and when that blade is dulled,  the words die with it. I am unstable, delicate— a crystal on the edge of shattering. The spears come daily,  piercing deeper each time, and the wounds no longer remember how to close. When does it end? It’s a slow suffocation, drifting with no harbor to hold me.  I don’t care if these words are ugly, if they disturb you, if they push you away—they aren’t for you. Th...

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...