Another night of apathy, headphones grafted to the eardrums to pour out a gentle stream of sadness that watered my dry brain. I hang around on my bed, in this blanket that serves as my larval cocoon intermittently, without ever transforming myself.
I feel this presence attacking me without really understanding it, this muted violence whose origin I can never really find. Maybe it's just inside me, maybe it's just like that.
It is not loneliness that causes it, nothing makes me feel more lonely than getting lost in the vastness of a crowd bath, or caressing the superficiality of the automatons I meet in the corridors of my university.
Nor is it the heart that is acting up, I have learned over the years to distance myself from these semblances of relationships. The ephemeral does not frighten me much, so it is just as much to accept it and withdraw when the excitement has faded.
So what is it? I get lost in questions. When finally by a sublime chance I think I have touched the shadow of my finger, I sink into the abyss and taste hatred. Then everything ended, I forgot the mirage I had seen: I know it wasn't that. So I tell myself that it is futile to search.
By day, I dream no more. Motivation flees from me as if she had seen the devil in me. Only the sleep that still gives me this pleasure, which ends up taking me after hours of despair, and transports me to tortured but at the very least exciting nooks and crannies. Only I forget, and I bite into this bland fruit that is my life as soon as I open my eyes.
I move forward like a machine, or rather my body does it while my mind observes it from afar, without worrying about directing it better, without giving importance to what it sees. I am a spectator, an observer, I look at my misfortune with a treacherous eye.
I comfort myself as I can in this great void. I feed my demons in the worst way, and I perform this ritual in the name of the most terrible of them: depression.
