I've exhausted myself, Beautiful Reader.
The world is full of unsurety, of an unabashedly twisted path none can truly navigate. You can never see around the bend, only where you are, with the memory of where you've been. Sometimes, on this path, I turn around and gaze back, longing for the beautiful places where I could rest, but now...lately... I just walk along this path alone, kicking stones along the grey, ash ridden ruins I created.
I see the specters of people, glowing a moment and swirling in ash before they fall to the ground. When they exist, they walk beside me, trying to hold my hand, but before they touch me, they crumble.
Remnants of my rage cling to me like lost children, and I can feel her within me, that woman of violence, myself shrouded in shadowed anger. I kick another rock forward, watching as it skips across the field of barren ash, leaving little puffs of dust as it settles. I continue to walk forward, looking at the charred remains of the trees as they droop, charcoal black on my hands when I touch them. They crumble. They die...they are already dead.
I walk to the mountain, a blackened, skeletal tower of rock. I grab the stones, hauling myself up as my face becomes increasingly charred. It doesn't take any effort, but I can feel its pain as I get closer to the top.
I've reached the summit, and I sit on that flat panel piece of rock, staring at the edge of my atmosphere, scarred with reddened clouds that swirl in an angry calm above me. A dead wind stirs my hair. My eyes scan my world in a bittersweet satisfaction...but suddenly, a morose sadness washes over me. this world is dead. My inside escape has become my inner regret, my death within. I did this. I chose this. I know I don't need this.. right? This obsessed war on perfection killed the peace I had. Did I want it ever before, and do i want it now? Do i regret this mistake, or is this regret itself?
I don't want it back. I can see the tear drifting down my face, smearing through the ash and soot as I gaze with dead, grey eyes. I hate this world. I hate it. I pick up a rock lying convenient to my position, and I throw it as far as I can, watching it tumble down to the skeletal, charred forest that was my heaven. Damn it to hell, to itself, unto me. I get up, noticing only now that I wear no clothes, that the soot has stained my body, making me like the world around, and look up again at the deadly red sky. I think it's time for me to leave.
I sigh, my breath ash and smoke, and I lick my chapped lips. They taste dead. I open my grey eyes again, and I step off the edge of the mountain, letting the ash-laced world suck me in as I tumble through the air, landing gently on my back in the soft ash. I stare up at the grey and red world, willing the ash to just cover me, suffocate me, and as I look around, I see the ash and dying light specters staring at me, making a semicircle. I can feel their sorrow, and I know they hate me, what I've done. I can't feel guilty. Not now. Not anymore. I lie there, and I let my eyes drift shut, coming back to reality.
That world doesn't need me. I don't need me. I don't need anyone. Underneath all their life, lies prevail. A dead world is inside all of us. We can't hide behind the green and the floating drops of water, not anymore. Ash and soot... that's what we make ourselves. That's all. And we don't want to improve. We don't want to make the effort anymore. We're lazy, and we love it. We drink in it, in the sloth and nothing. In the drowning of our consciences, we find a sick, twisted joy. We don't need to feel anything else, do we? Just disgust of ourselves that we lock away so we don't have to feel it.
We're all sick, Beautiful Reader. Aren't we?
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