Observing my mind falling apart and consciously waiting to disintegrate feels somewhat calming.

It’s like watching blood drip down while getting weaker and weaker and weaker.

The underlying panic is hidden in plain sight, facilitating the self-destruction with constant indifference. It could be shame. I don’t know.

But draining this world of its meaning feels somewhat calming and I’m getting weaker and weaker and weaker.

Resonant clusters of awe
Polished galaxies rest
Silent covenant

The machine is starting
It swallows a star
The cogs are screeching

My brain is waiting
The machine is reaching
Silence – then screeching again

The opal is done
A resonant cluster of awe
No conclusions to draw

Connecting two dots creates a line
Two dots connected

Extending a line creates infinity
A line extended

Reaching infinity creates a paradox
Infinity reached

Living a paradox, becoming nothing
End of line

It’s becoming so clear now. It’s not about the universe not giving a shit, it’s about being alone in this body, alone in this mind. The disconnect is not just a feeling, it is reality. My reality. The feeble intermezzos of closeness are illusions, delusions even. The effects of oxytocin on my gullible receptors and neurologically relevant pathways, and my stubborn consciousness that frames everything as something rather than disregarding it as a rush of nothingness.

I have tried everything: I have learned to speak their language, interpreting their facial tides and even the slightest shifts in posture. Nothing in return. No, even worse: disappointment after disappointment. Perhaps it’s all just unmet expectations. However. I don’t even know why I care.

Sometimes I get the impression that they all keep me in suspense just to feed on my openness and availability. They use me as a...

Every thought has fallen down
Decomposing, fleeting in streams of nothingness
Interesting to observe, but meaningless
Seeing patterns where only chaos presents
Dense

I would love to walk again
Just another try, just another life
Melodies where only noise presents
Dense

This tension needs release
I need to get out of it before the next contraction ends
Dense

I won’t get out of it before the next contraction ends
Dense

I am frozen in time

Wrinkles in dried-up goo
Bloody red in its cracks
Fleeting moods of yesteryear
Wobbly melodies of profanity

The big attractor is getting weaker
Or time is slowing down
It doesn’t matter for now

Hymns of steady inconsequence
Patterns vanish

A single line remains

Running circles on a circle,
hoping to break free.
Day after day,
round after round.

My brain hurts. Salty taste. Shaky legs.

I saw it coming,
talked about it,
thought about it,
asked for help,
and help was offered.

I accepted and fell into the same trap again.

Who are these people?
What is family?
Why so bleak?

The sum of its parts
and then some. Maybe.

This torus is not a spiral
but it sure feels like one
while running circles on it
at least from my point of view.

I’m dizzy. I need to sit down.

Aura. Migraine. Sleep. Pain. One more day. Again. Again.

A fermata on the spaghettification of my consciousness. A vortex of nothingness, a requiem for hope — no pride left.

Aura. Migraine. Sleep. Pain. One more day. Again. Again.

Repetition where no repetition was requested. Perhaps.

Fluctuating patterns roam my body — geometric shapes, visceral textures steeped in colours. Emotions, they say, with names and a life of their own.

I catch one in the moment, observe it, dissect it, searching for the right term. Words learned from books prove insufficient classifications of these involuntary mechanisms. I’d always thought them mere metaphorical flourishes of human speech; sparks of an unfree will.

Sacred Songs – Valentyn Vasylyovych Sylvestrov

But as soon as the music starts, I drown in a kaleidoscopic flood of my emotional debris. The undercurrent breaches, becoming the surface itself. No words needed. Just letting go.