I have gone through all the phases of this journey: first, suicidal ambivalence, that time when the thought of the end clashed with the faint desire to stay; then the collapse of ambivalence, when the inner struggle broke apart and suicide became the only certainty. The world narrowed, shrinking into a tunnel with no exits, where all alternatives disappeared—along with every emotion. Then came the total calm, not a mere illusion of peace, but a deep, final stillness without cracks.
I no longer feel the need to distract myself, to fill time, to find diversions. There is no more anxiety, no more uncertainty. There is no battle to fight, no torment to overcome. Time flows, but it no longer matters. The conflict is over, the hesitation has vanished, everything has been reduced to a simple, clear horizon.
Now, there is only stillness. No more struggle, no more fear. Just the silence after the storm, the sea stretching flat beneath a windless sky, the slow descent of the sun over a world that no longer moves. There is no more waiting because there is nothing left to wait for.
And then there is everything around me—this grand theater of worn-out puppets, flailing for a script that was never written, performing for an audience that isn't there, convinced their act has meaning. Their passions, their fears, their endless struggles—all so clumsy, so predictable, so exhaustingly stale. I was never part of this farce, never drawn into their sleepwalking enthusiasm. There is nothing here worth a second thought, nothing deserving of attachment. It's a machine turning endlessly, consuming itself, producing nothing but the same tired cycle, over and over again. Watching it from the outside no longer stirs anger or irritation, just confirmation: it has always been this way, and always will be. But not for me.