--

Yes, there are times where I can soak up nothing, where even the quintessence of beauty standing before me seems like Jupiter, foreign, remote; where the presence of other human beings is too exhausting, and keeping up a conversation is nothing less than self-torture. Instances have pain -- downright physical pain; a sort of crushing against my temples, but far too light to be a headache, yet still infinitely heavier. All self-written words, like these here, are considered worthless, rubbish, evidence of ineptitude that the world has never seen. Books clutter around, auspicious titles, tantalizing subjects, but my mind is so strung out with intertia that after ten lines I'm ready to die. All that is left is a dark, ur-meditative, nihilistic stare where everything frowns at me with emptiness, and weakness pours through my veins, and all I want to do is sleep.

What is this?

No, the situations are rare, thankfully. Yet in this exact situation, or even on a pathway towards it, still lightyears away, most anyone seduced by the dark manna of the world would do anything to escape it. I don't want to escape it. It makes me sick to think of escaping it; yet I still know that I am free, terribly free, to do so. At times I find myself personifying this disease by literally verbally speaking to it and the open air: "you will not win; I am stronger; try your best". Suddenly the air seems a little lighter, and a fighting smile paints my lips. But soon things return. I do have the choice, don't I? I can channel this negation onto the outer world. I can hate, or feign impatience, manipulate others, lose myself in substances, ad infinitum. Better, I can perpetuate the lie of appearance by throwing myself into a crowd of dead souls, garnering their attention, living in the shelter of a facade. I can do all this. But I don't. I hold it in.

Listen. I am completely powerless. I have sway over nothing. Everything passes me by, and like a foot-locked near-stowaway I can't make the minimal leap onto the slow-moving train of the world. Absolutely nothing heals. Nothing. But I still have a choice. I can suffer, or destroy. A single drop of malevolence microscopically curses the entire cosmic net, and God knows it is too often the breaking point for other breaking selves. So, perhaps half-madly, I ask -- without even knowing what I am asking, here, this moment -- one thing. Appreciate me. No, I can live well enough without you; I am not seeking your admiration. But am I not, through my voluntary suffering, keeping the world a little brighter than it could be, and are you not a member of this rusty little world?

Can you do the same?