I don’t always know what I feel.
Some days, it’s as if I’m drifting
into a distant dimension—
watching myself drown
in silence.

I grow tired of feeling,
tired of being,
as if every breath
is another thread unraveling.

My mind toys with me,
blurring the borders
between illusion and truth.

I see them—
gathered in their warmth,
laughing, alive.
And here I am,
a shadow in the corner,
growing colder,
layer upon layer of frost
hiding the hollow beneath.

I long to step closer,
to feel their fire—
but my own heart
bars the door,
and my thoughts
chain me down.
They whisper:
"You were never meant
for warmth,
for worth,
for life."

So I linger on the edge,
slowly withering,
a ghost rehearsing
its own departure.

I want to feel…
yet I don’t even know
what I was made for,
what purpose breath
was meant to serve.

So I walk,
and walk,
until the road gives way—
tired, empty,
a name without meaning.

It’s almost cruelly comic,
to know I’ll die without purpose.
To die small.
To die pathetic.