Upon a hanging Body
October will cure me
- Jan 5, 2025
- 1,193
There's a certain point where you stop fighting the current and just let yourself drift, not because you want to drown, but because swimming starts feeling pointless. You look around at everyone else .. laughing, planning, pretending they've got some cosmic reason to keep going and it just doesn't compute. You start wondering if maybe you were built without that spark, or if it got burned out somewhere along the way. Every day starts to blur into this gray static, and you forget what it felt like to look forward to anything at all.
People tell you to "hold on," but hold on to what, exactly? The endless cycle of waking up already tired, dragging your body through another day that feels like a rerun of the last fifty? The promises of "it gets better" that sound like background noise when you've been waiting for better for years? You start to feel like life is this cruel joke where you're the punchline ... where every good thing eventually disappears.
You replay every failure, every betrayal, every time you tried to claw your way up only to get knocked flat again. You start cataloging the losses: the people you loved that left you to suffer alone, the ones who died, the version of yourself that used to believe things could change. You look at the mirror and don't see a person anymore. You see a vessel, a being stretched too thin by pain that it never asked for.
And it's not even about the dramatic stuff sometimes ...it's the small humiliations that pile up. The unread messages, the dirty dishes, the fact that you smell because you havent showered in a week...the quiet disappointment of realizing you can't even remember the last time you laughed and meant it. You start to disappear from your own life before you even leave it. You ghost yourself.
There's anger ... the slow build up thats focused at the world, at everyone who hurt you and walked away like it was nothing, at the sky for being so goddamn indifferent. You rage at how people talk about "healing" like it's a straight line when you're still bleeding out on the floor. You want to scream, but no one's listening no one is ever listening, and after a while you stop trying to make noise. You just go quiet.
And that quiet starts to feel like relief. Like maybe that's what peace actually is ....not joy, not happiness, just nothing. No more expectations, no more guilt for not being okay. Just the stillness that the living never get to feel.
You start thinking: what if there was a version of life where you didn't have to keep fighting to exist? Where breathing didn't hurt? Where people saw you, really saw you, and didn't turn away? That version feels so far gone it might as well be another universe. So you sit there, halfway between wanting to die and being too stubborn to do it. That's the purgatory of the broken ...too tired for life, too haunted for death.
Death is the only guaranteed thing in life ... and life will forever be the cruel lie that we were all wrongfully given .
People tell you to "hold on," but hold on to what, exactly? The endless cycle of waking up already tired, dragging your body through another day that feels like a rerun of the last fifty? The promises of "it gets better" that sound like background noise when you've been waiting for better for years? You start to feel like life is this cruel joke where you're the punchline ... where every good thing eventually disappears.
You replay every failure, every betrayal, every time you tried to claw your way up only to get knocked flat again. You start cataloging the losses: the people you loved that left you to suffer alone, the ones who died, the version of yourself that used to believe things could change. You look at the mirror and don't see a person anymore. You see a vessel, a being stretched too thin by pain that it never asked for.
And it's not even about the dramatic stuff sometimes ...it's the small humiliations that pile up. The unread messages, the dirty dishes, the fact that you smell because you havent showered in a week...the quiet disappointment of realizing you can't even remember the last time you laughed and meant it. You start to disappear from your own life before you even leave it. You ghost yourself.
There's anger ... the slow build up thats focused at the world, at everyone who hurt you and walked away like it was nothing, at the sky for being so goddamn indifferent. You rage at how people talk about "healing" like it's a straight line when you're still bleeding out on the floor. You want to scream, but no one's listening no one is ever listening, and after a while you stop trying to make noise. You just go quiet.
And that quiet starts to feel like relief. Like maybe that's what peace actually is ....not joy, not happiness, just nothing. No more expectations, no more guilt for not being okay. Just the stillness that the living never get to feel.
You start thinking: what if there was a version of life where you didn't have to keep fighting to exist? Where breathing didn't hurt? Where people saw you, really saw you, and didn't turn away? That version feels so far gone it might as well be another universe. So you sit there, halfway between wanting to die and being too stubborn to do it. That's the purgatory of the broken ...too tired for life, too haunted for death.
Death is the only guaranteed thing in life ... and life will forever be the cruel lie that we were all wrongfully given .
