There is a kind of suffering too deep for words,
a weight that settles in the bones,
dragging the soul into an abyss where even despair has lost its voice.
You wake, you breathe, you move—
but it is not living. It is merely the absence of death.

Nothing matters.
Not love, not laughter, not the sun rising over the rooftops.
You watch the world as if from behind a glass,
separated, untouched,
a ghost among the living.

You search for meaning,
as a man drowning in the ocean searches for land.
But there is none—only an endless stretch of water,
only the slow pull of the tide.

And so you sink, without struggle, without protest.
Because what is there left to hold onto,
when even the suffering has become dull?