The line between real and unreal dissolves like ink in water, and what once seemed solid turns to mist. Every face becomes a mask, and words turn into sharp knives, cutting deeper than any flesh could ever bear. We are puppets of a fear we don't know the source of, but it always finds us.

Reality fades, and we wonder if we're living or merely surviving. Those who watch from the outside see what they want to see but never understand what lies within the depths of a mind that no longer knows its own name. Amid the cold gazes and the world's indifference, we get lost. We are invisible, even to ourselves, carrying a weight that will never be seen but is always there.

Sometimes, pain is the only friend. It doesn’t speak, it doesn’t ask for anything. It just is, constant. Yet, the silence of a mind that is no longer the same becomes more deafening than any scream. Schizophrenia is not just a disorder. It is a battlefield where the mind loses its war with reality, and in the end, we are but the remnants of what we once were.

We are prisoners of a reality we don't understand, of a chaos that consumes us from the inside out. We try to find a way out, but everything around us is an illusion. Freedom, a distant and torturous concept, always just out of reach. The pain isn't just physical. It seeps into our veins, our blood, our flesh. Pain is the only thing that confirms we're still here. We still breathe, but we no longer know why.

The voices aren’t friends. They’re demons whispering from the dark corners of your mind, always close, always waiting for the right moment to tear your soul apart. They don’t stop. They don’t ask for permission. They invade. They are more real than anything you can see or touch. The worst part is, sometimes you don’t know if the voices are coming from within, or if the world is just falling apart around you. Your body becomes a prison, and your mind, a battlefield where every thought is a blade.

A society? An immense machine that crushes dreams. A structure of lies disguised as rules, where we are forced to follow like automatons, with no room to question, no freedom to breathe. We are cogs, cogs applied to a system that is unimportant. The pursuit of happiness is a farce. There is no happiness. There is conformity. And that is what slowly kills us the accessibility of a life that was never ours, of a path we never chose.

Perhaps, deep down, the truth is this: life is just waiting for death. And death is not a liberation, but merely the end of an illusion, the last act of a play that never made sense. And in the end, we realize it was never about finding anything worthwhile. It was never about seeking happiness or fulfillment. It was always about surviving chaos until it swallowed us.

And in the end, it always does.