It’s not that I’m unaware of the reasons. I know them very well. They’ve been with me for a long time. It’s almost like I can’t imagine a life without them. But I can.

Self-inflicted agony. Yes, it even has a name.

The pain that accompanies me is like the Passion in Flesh and The Power It Holds. It is that friend you always want to see and be with, but feels so far away when together. At that point one must understand that something is wrong and keep away. I do understand the issue, alas…

I own it. I define myself with it. I have embedded it into my very existence. I believe the bond makes me reluctant to do away with the pain. I mean, what do I feel without it? Sure I can take on responsibilities and finish them one by one, but what will it mean to me then?

“One more step and it will be the farthest away I have even been from the Shire.” How relatable is that? Is it the warm blanket of the comfort zone speaking or its chains? Frankly, I’ve never figured out a way to distinguish between the two. It is either that the two are inherently too similar to each other or I welcome both the same.

Embossing a name with love and care produces the much needed meaning to this weird journey. Yet, the meaning turns into a butterfly of flames flapping within different organs of the body —gross— when the name does not return the favour. It would be wise to control the love and care to mend the wound, then. But wisdom has never escaped the confines of books. What is a fool to do? Take away the meaning? No, not unless it hurts bad enough. And even at that point, I won’t chop away the tree. Who knows, maybe it will have fruits of gold one day, and we will eat them together. No, it is just the punishment of the golden fruit that the tree yields. The fruits are only in myths.

We enter a limbo between hopes and their desolation. By we, I mean me. I only wanted to include that other name to feel accompanied. And that name, it’s not unique. It would be if I was able to engrave it into oak instead of sticking a measly post-it on a wall built by mortals. But I am too afraid of losing that I never hold onto anything firmly. I am too scared of lacking that I never move far enough. That’s the limbo I mentioned.

The world, it is not a beautiful place. It stinks. Every breath I take is filled with filth and every scene I gaze at disgusts me. The authors of mankind must have hunted beauty to extinction, trapping it into their books for collectors to admire. How can I be expected to feel anything but pity for other cylinderical volumes floating around? And how can I expect them to feel anything but disgust at me?

These two do not match. There cannot be any form of harmony for these two entities. They are destined for loneliness for the whole of their lives. It is the one thing that binds them together, a curse preventing any candle light from finding their lanterns.

Why?

Cruelty cannot be the answer. It is a human quality that cannot be possessed by the universe. I believe it’s just wrong. This is the way things are, and the way things are is simply faulty.

See? That is a man who does not want to do it anymore. But, he will surely do it more. As he said, this is the way th——

If there is nothing more to my life than the fact that is is my life, then whatever I do, I won’t be held responsible. Then I may as well just make it enjoyable. You would assume that this mindset would solve all problems.

I have a fascination with broken things. I can look at a broken branch for hours. Why wouldn’t I? It is majestic. Or maybe I relate to it. The end of an uncomplete entity, rough and sharp edges with no predictable structure, the remains of a defeat… A broken branch carries with it its dreams of a better self. The fascinating part is the state of dreams. They too are broken. Shattered, in fact. Even the smallest composites are split from each other for an eternity of incompleteness. Yet, it is still only one entity that oversees their safekeeping, with fractured hopes to unify them again into a decent structure.

One fears only thoughts embodying a piece of reality. The greater the reality, the greater the fear. I dread the realisation that a meaning is impossible.

Right now it seems to me that a meaning can be associated with a “someone” rather than a “something”. Without a mutual connection that meaning should not exist. It would at most be a pinch of hope, broken of course. It has been a pinch of hope many times, and with the hope, a piece of my existence breaks as well.