I carry a spark – perhaps a remnant of an ancient, forgotten outburst of energy. But it’s only a spark. And the rest is unwanted, dead matter, soaked by unseen, cunning rain. In my tragedy I cannot burst into flames.
The fire within burns ever brighter, but I stare at it with unseeing eyes, wondering why is it that it has scorched my skin, and yet I am so cold. There are others by the fire, and yet I am alone. Stories can be heard, but I remain unmoved, as my truth is absolute.
An absolute truth that has brought me here – into the Nothing. I wonder how much more there is to endure. The future of cruelty is infinite, stretching outwards as far as the eye can see. As I move closer to the tortured horizon, I wonder why I am not falling. I wonder why my feet still carry me, fixated on the path as if moved by a foreign power.
In truth, I walk down the path because it is the only one that I have ever known. A part of me still rejects it. A part of me understands that there is no free will. And that life is so much more beautiful without it. A life of insignificant sacrifices – countless small cuts, but they heal quickly.
I walk down the path without direction or vision. In hope of finding something… to finally kill the spark, so that I can be free.
Or to burst into flames, to step through the door that no one dares enter, to swallow a few bitter moments, and then vanish.
I wish for nothing more than to turn around and came back from where I came.
And to never set foot here again.