The world around me is an endless blur of confusion and noise, and I am trapped in its suffocating grip.
Pain is my only constant, a silent scream that echoes through my every moment, reminding me that I am alive, though I wish I were not.
Regret clings to my every thought, the weight of my mistakes pressing down on me, dragging me deeper into the void.
I look at the faces of others, and they are foreign to me.
Their words, their actions—none of it makes sense. They are all lost, stumbling blindly through their hollow lives,
but I am different. I alone see the truth, the raw, unfiltered reality of what this existence truly is.
There is no salvation, no redemption, only the relentless march of time that leads to a punishment far greater than I can comprehend.
And yet, I am condemned to linger in this world of falsehoods, carrying my guilt like a curse,
knowing that the consequences will come, and when they do, they will be as eternal as the darkness inside me.
No one can understand. No one but me.
I am the only one who truly knows the depth of the abyss we all live in.

One day, I will vanish. It will be as if I never existed at all, slipping away into the shadows, a fleeting presence forgotten.
The emptiness that will follow my disappearance will not be true sorrow, but an act—a performance staged for the briefest of moments.
They will mourn, yes, but their grief will be hollow, a mask they wear only long enough to fulfill their own need for validation.
They will cry, perhaps, but their tears will not touch the depth of my absence. It will not be the loss of me they mourn,
but the loss of the illusion I created for them to cling to, an illusion they will discard when the next cycle of their shallow lives begins.
I will be nothing but a fleeting memory, fading faster than the last breath of a dying star.
And in that fading, I will know with bitter certainty that I never truly mattered to anyone.
The lives they lead are built on falsehoods—false promises, false connections, false love. All of it fake. All of it empty.
They will forget me quickly, as they have forgotten everyone who ever truly needed them.
I will not be missed for who I was. I will be mourned only for the role I played in their dull existence, a role that could easily be replaced by the next victim they carelessly stumble upon.
I hate them all—the ones who walk through life with blind eyes and hollow hearts, so wrapped in their own fake reality that they cannot see the suffering around them.
I hate how easily they discard the few who truly need them, yet they never fail to demand attention when their fragile little worlds start to crumble.
They will not understand my absence. They will never understand what it means to be truly abandoned, to be lost in a world that never gave a damn.
And that’s what makes me worthless—to them, to this world. My life, my pain, it means nothing. It will never mean anything.
I loved you. Beyond the reach of words, beyond the depths of reason. A love so consuming, it devoured me whole,
twisting into bitter hatred as I watched you drift further from me, blind to the agony I wear like a shroud.
I loved you with a devotion so relentless, it bled from my soul like blood from wounds unseen,
a suffering that never reached your indifferent eyes.
Do you know the number of tears I've spilled for you, each one a silent cry lost in the void?
How many nights I've spent drowning in sorrow, wishing for the touch of a love that never came,
as I bled in silence, my heart torn and forgotten, while you remained oblivious?
I gave all that I had—every fragile, broken piece of me—and yet you never saw the weight of my devotion.
I thought you would be there for me, as I was for you, but I was wrong.
I trusted you with a hope that shattered like glass, and in its place is nothing but a cold, empty void.
The love I poured out has withered and died, and now only bitterness festers in its hollow shell.
Do you know the depth of my despair, the endless nights I’ve spent in the dark, aching for you?
Do you care at all?
Or am I just a shadow in the endless sea of your indifference, a forgotten wretch discarded when your attention fades?
Do you care at all?
Humans have become nothing more than actors in a twisted play, each one vying to wear their sadness like a shroud,
as though pain itself has become a fashion statement. They perform their sorrow, amplifying it until it’s no longer real,
until the very essence of sadness is nothing more than a hollow echo—a noise that everyone is too tired to care about.
In a world that glorifies misery, those who feel it most are drowned in the sea of false pretenders.
They pretend to suffer, to drown in the weight of a sadness they never truly understand.
And now, when I am submerged in the depths of my own anguish,
when my heart bleeds and my soul cracks,
I am met with only contempt and suspicion, as if my pain is just another act to be dismissed.
They call me an emo poser, a child of self-indulgent despair,
when in truth, I am suffocating in a reality far darker than they will ever know.
But I don’t care. Not anymore.
I don’t care what they think of me, nor do I care what they feel.
For what is emotion but a meaningless flicker of falsehood, a play-acted charade we wear to distract from the void?
If no one has ever cared for me, truly cared, then why should I waste another moment on them?
We are all as worthless as the next—empty husks drifting aimlessly through a meaningless existence.
Our lives are just cycles of pretending, of placing false value on people and things that should have never held such weight.
We worship illusions, and in doing so, we sell ourselves into eternal exhaustion.
We are tired. Tired of pretending, tired of caring for things that hold no real value.
We tire ourselves with false hopes, chasing after ghosts,
leaving us nothing but hollow echoes of what we once were, desperately grasping at things that only drain us further.
In this world, we are all expendable. Our worth is nothing but an illusion,
and the more we cling to it, the more we find ourselves slipping into the abyss of indifference.
Everything is fake. Every feeling is a lie. Every connection is a thread that breaks as soon as you try to hold on.
And in the end, we are all left in the same pit of nothingness—alone and empty,
pretending that it ever meant something, when it never did.