u/Gloomuar

The world that once wanted to devour me quietly choked on my indifference.
It no longer knocks on the window or rustles like a mouse in the corners. It has forgotten me forever.

Silently vanishing beneath a blanket of leaden fatigue, I crossed the point of no return.
Unaware, I summoned her.
An emotionless deity that needs no prayers or offerings.
In the ringing silence, she places her hand on my chest — heavy as a gravestone — and everything comes to a halt.

She smells of the dust of unwashed beds.
She strokes my hair, and my thoughts turn into grey noise.
She kisses my lips — and the taste of life is replaced by the taste of emptiness.

I am an abandoned well, buried under snow.
Where my voice is nothing but a howling wind.
Apathy caresses me, tearing off the rags of hope — that pitiful, stinking servant…
She whispers like a curtain in a draft:
Hush… hush…
You no longer need to be someone.
You no longer need anything.

There are no values left.
Yes, I clearly remember losing something important.
But what?
I watch someone cry and don’t understand — why.
Cold has become the only warmth I can still endure.

Oh, Apathy.
My Snow Queen.
A touch without pulse or passion.
She does not beat or violate.
She simply kisses my forehead and slowly pulls me out of reality.
A lifeless tenderness that lulls me, dragging me into nonexistence.
You have become my last and most faithful lover.
Carelessly brushing away all memories, now turned to ash.

Once, furious screams were replaced by deafening silence.
Apathy runs her fingers over my eyelids, and the world fades — becoming flat and grey like an old newspaper.
When she touches gaping wounds — they simply stop aching.
And the desire to disappear fades away, because even that requires effort.

I am no longer ashamed — because there are no feelings.
Time no longer exists — because there are no expectations.
All colors have disappeared.
I have become an old television set that shows only white noise and gathers dust.
You can hit me, kiss me, pour filth over me — the screen will only hiss in response.

When the last strength for passive observation ran out, I acknowledged her victory.
Just as I once accepted the moment of my existential collapse — and surrendered.

Apathy turns off the light and lies down beside me.
At the bottom of life, no one sees me anymore.
I have long been dead.
The body just hasn’t received the notification yet.
And she is pleased. I know for certain that she is smiling.

Late at night, after aimlessly wandering through an empty city, I enter yet another rented apartment and don’t turn on the lights.
My brain just blows the fuses so I don’t go insane from realizing the full scale of deception and madness in this alien enclosed space I mentally call a ward.

And I simply don’t want to see what is already waiting for me there — it has made itself comfortable on the only chair in the kitchen.
And it is not loneliness.
Loneliness got sick from the foul draft of freedom and disappeared forever.
I wished it to die on its way back to its kingdom of romance, and the charm of its curse shattered, scattering through the alleys like shining mercury.

I stand motionless with my eyes closed — behind them, a black canvas of aphantasia, where I will never see the clear blue of the sky or my mother’s eyes…
It turns out that at birth I was given a ticket to a film that rats have already eaten.

I suddenly want to feel nothing, because to feel all this is unbearable.
But the anesthesia of illusions stopped working a long time ago.

I listen in the dim corridor — not a sound.
The ringing in my ears and the silence of the sleeping building begin to press in, triggering a panic attack.
Its sweaty, sticky touch fills me with a suffocating disgust.
Like the pus-yellow glow of the streetlights outside, slowly seeping onto the walls.

Panic — as if it had been waiting for me there, beneath the old wallpaper.
It peels away from the walls with a wet, tearing sound, exposing the underside of the real world.
And madness rushes from corner to corner, together with cockroaches, searching for some kind of comfort.

It becomes unbearably suffocating.
Trying to withstand the pressure of panic, as if sinking into a soft wall, I grope for the door handle and spill out like a bag of trash into the stinking stairwell, then stumble down the steps, drenched in sweat, out into the street.
The light bulb above the entrance is broken, and not a single window shines to illuminate my emptiness.
As if I’ve been left alone in this cursed place among the black coffins of panel buildings.

What am I doing here, in this world that has become a real hell to me?
I ask, raising my face, wet with tears and sweat.
Consumed by cosmic pessimism, I listen to the stars flickering in the black ocean of a universe with neither beginning nor end.

The current of grief will inevitably carry away everyone whose presence I longed for and feared to lose, and no human genius will ever build a dam strong enough or turn time back.

People are a resource in a vast predatory machine.
With boastful pride, heads held high, a mortgage clenched in their teeth, they frantically scurry with rat-like paws in its wheel.
From cradle to grave.

We are that intermediate link — developed enough to realize our captivity, yet too weak to break free…

I want to lie down and never get up — the voice of my biology, violated by years of obsessive slavery and acid stress, carefully drapes over me a lead blanket of endless exhaustion.

Shuffling, I return and lie down fully dressed, aching with longing, dreaming of never waking up again.

P.S.

When I wrote this, it wasn’t inspiration — it was a diagnosis.
And now I just need someone to sit beside me in this ward of emptiness.