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A book with no title.

Community Member
Here I am being all sentimental again, writing another entry into the void, but I feel like it's better getting it down than keeping it in my head. The void might not listen to me at all, but I can still talk, and in a way I can process these thoughts which I pretend do not exist. My very own therapy sessions, an echo chamber of one. I'll reach out for help, for an olive branch, but I know there's nothing there. My arm outstretched into a vast nothingness, praying to be embraced by the people who aren't there to embrace me.

I think about it like this and it makes me feel alone, it makes it feel pointless. I look at myself from the outside and I know that it is, but it's whatever is human inside me that cannot help doing fruitless tasks. Whatever is the romantic, the optimist, or maybe just the delusional. Either way I cannot give you a concrete reason for any of this. It's not even a permanent medium, this site, this account, the internet on a whole. It's like writing my life story in the sand, destined to be erased, or more accurately eroded. Erosion seems more poetic, the idea that it is the natural cycle of existence to grind away my meaningless cries into nothingness. My heart and soul, poured into a nothing vessel, unneeded, and then reduced to the same nothingness that bore it.

Today I am focused on my flaws, which is usually the case when I write these things. A child of the internet, every mistake I've ever made is documented in such vivid detail. I don't just remember fights, I can read them. I can pinpoint the moment I said what I shouldn't have. My lies laid before me, my outbursts, when I wasn't fair, my desperation. It's a transcript of burning bridges. When I let my ego hurt us both, or when that was my explicit goal. It makes my heart twist into the most agonizing ball, threatening to absorb my entire self, to break me into the nothing that I deserve to be. To be the arbiter of your own destruction, and to clarify we all are, it just hurts to see it again, and again. Stop... Devin why? Stop! Please don't say that. Please... Apologize! You still can. Can you imagine? Hating yourself so deeply?

If the transcript of my transgressions is the wound, everything before that is the salt. We can go further back, before the fights, before the egotistical destruction. We can walk the bridge again, I can see your words, and I can know that you meant them. I can feel the warmth, I can feel the dedication, I can feel your friendship, your love. I can see myself from a different time, playing, enjoying himself, teasing you and living the life of the adored. I can feel it. My twisted heart breaks.

Everything comes back. My shell is gone. The layers of this persona I've built isn't peeled away as much as it's destroyed in an instant. I realize that I destroyed so much more than I have ever built, and in the wake of my fires a desperation overcomes me. A desperate need to put out the flames, but they've long since burnt all of their fuel and died out. I watched the fires with a smile, instead of dousing the flames I added fuel. When I still had the chance to do something about it, I instead basked in the glow of my own arrogance. The ash slips between my fingers, it stains my skin, it chokes my lungs. Sometimes, the pain is so much that I think I should let it take me, that I should suffocate on my own stupidity.

But I don't. I cannot. Eventually I'll stand up and rebuild my shell, and for a time I'll forget. Though whether I think about it or not my past is, it always will be, and when I remember again I'll die in the ash.

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