Everyone’s favourite kind of hell
I feel physicaly sick. All my rationalism tells me this is bad, but manageable. My heart tells me this is the end of it all, that he hungers for what he’ll never have again. My body tells me he doesn’t see the point of anything anymore, and might as well let it all fall to ruin, because the heart says so. If I suddenly burst to flames, it’s normal: what else, really, could I do?
There is no worse stanger than the one we are to ourselves. Hell is other people? No, hell is not knowing who you are, and being pretty sure you don’t want to. This should therefore be my last post here, as I can no longer be Ian, and shall probably resume my life as the nameless kid I used to be.
The past will always tie me to this pool of sorrow. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy…
I hope this isn’t your last post.
It should be. We’ll see what the future has in stocks, but right now, I have to put an end to at least this.