My life in shambles. The world is grey, dull, and unencumbered by any stability of truth. The ash is filling my lungs as my home is burnt to the point of no return. How did I think this would go? Did I think destroying my relationships and letting anger become manifest in my soul would be a way to freedom? Why does there seem to be no choice between a life of forced polite behavior or a life of destruction. I fall to my knees, broken like the state of my surroundings. If only I could disintegrate to my purest form, nourish the earth, and return, as my home has. There’s no escape. The rush of emotion after emotion shackles my brain and doesn’t let me go. Am I as empty as what I’ve created? I am nothing short of a meaningless escapade as the life I’ve lived. There’s no redeeming quality, just tragedy after tragedy falling deeper into chaos and problematic venture. How did I think to get here? Did I not think at all? The ending is here. I remember the womb of my mother and the warmth of freedom. It’s interesting that trapped inside of somebody else’s body, unmoving, unable to act, is maybe the most free we’ve ever been. I can’t think of anything I need at this moment. Even when it’s all gone, I don’t know who I am. I forget that problems are just problems, and this too shall pass. My heart knows there’s no ending, and I wither away as a false-lived life returning to die. How can you die if you were never truly alive? What dies is your dreams, your anxieties, your fears, and your love. You are nothing, and that is maybe what you were meant to be all along. You don’t know what you are, but you know that in the end, it doesn’t matter.