Thread by @3milianv3rstapn

I remember a time. I remember. A time when staying awake meant life and being asleep was something I had to get through to get to the eventual good part. To be synchronous with the sun and the moon was a privilege. Now it’s the opposite and the dissonance is life taking.

I trudge through my days to get to the eventual good part—sleep. I stopped building things for me when the sun is high and started building a life that only exists when my eyes are closed. Maybe in hopes that when they are shut forever—I’ll still have a life to continue.

But, all good things come to an end. I’m not, anymore, grateful for the good that comes before the bad. It’s never worth it. Nothing is ever worth all the suffering. Because why does love and joy come like the moon on a new moon day but suffering and pain exist—like the sky.

Just like that. Gone are the nights too. Life is so incredibly over bearing. My life is my biggest interruption. Like a creep it stalks me through the day and at night it attempts—deliberately futilely—to asphyxiate me. Why have I become a monstrous creep?

How nefariously and perversely sick have I become to keep myself alive so I could suffer more? Every moment that once was, that gently nudged my heart is a weapon and there are millions at the torturer’s disposal. It’s beyond my ability to make people understand—

partly because most believe their lives are a blessing and partly because they simply can’t wear else’s shoes. That’s probably because my shoes are unwearable. Worn out. At times I just carry them by hand to let my feet rest.

I’m not the sun’s favorite one nor am I the moon’s. Hell, even the very land that I walk on is ashamed to carry my weight—never will it let me be buried. The air that I breathe runs away from me in disgust—never will it let my pyre be set on fire.

There are very few that make me happy. There are very many that make me sad. Trying to remember a memory of the former kind now feels like searching for a less tiny grain of sand in a sea of tiny grains of sand. The world is only a stage if there is someone to see me perform.

Why does everyone walk in and out at their own whim? There are obviously other performances, better performers but my theatre is decrepit. The roof may fall on me anytime soon. I am an uninvited guest in my own auditorium at my own performance. Similarly.

My heart is alien to my own body. My brain desires to shut it for my own welfare. To have synchrony is a privilege. My brain and heart are always at war. The dissonance is life taking. This time. Quite literally.

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