Reflections of the past continue to haunt me, like ghosts that refuse to leave. Relationships lost, relationships gained, and a path lined with choices and decisions—each one leading me further into the unknown. Yet, I see nothing. I don’t see my own hands. I dread the emptiness.
There is nothing. Nothing at all.
The broken glass that lies at my feet mirrors the fragments of my soul. I am scattered, my feelings bleeding out, yet every time I bury them, they rise again. My soul, captured, imprisoned in chains, unable to escape. I don’t feel anything. Nothing at all.
Hate me if you must, for I no longer love you. Slay my dreams—what is left of them—but know that I am immortal in my own suffering. The images that torment me are lethal, sharp as daggers, their presence haunting every corner of my mind. Take me out of this prison, these shattered hopes, these broken dreams. I don’t love anyone. Anyone at all.
I am subjected to infinite melancholy, like a rock endlessly battered by the cascade of time. I end up a withered flower, stripped of fragrance, its beauty lost to the world. I am wood in the fire, consumed by the flames of my own despair. I live no life—not at all.
This night is the grave of my past, the burial ground of the life I lived, the shattered remnants of a broken heart. And so I leave my hopes with these cries, once again. They are inaudible now, silenced by the chains that bind me.
I don’t remember anything. Anything at all.