The clock is in the chamber

pressed against my temple

ready as ever to shout

“Oh, you want to love your life?

NO!, there are plans later

so don't bother”

my wishes,

discovery,

oneirism,

relaxation,

creation;

a few monotonous hours

just for a while

Herculean of a task to forget

some needless apprehension, a ratchet strap

sediments me to my chair

for years on end

and so it's Tik-Tok

and YouTube slop

and no end in sight

again and again and again and again and again

I live in front of a mirror

Where there is no reflection

It feels natural, I've never seen my own face

Only glared at eyes surrounded by pure mist; nevertheless facsimilia

Every thought I have feels like a maze

They alter reality with some sort of parable

Through my mind where every move is drenched in paranoia

You see, it is some sort of hypermetropia

I see my future clear, as impossible

But everything dear, always as an ever-shifting gaze

One day, I will stare back at myself

One time, it will only be me

Only my untrained eyes

Not some shadow of reality

Who hasn't lived a single day outside of my head

But me, the scared little kid inside

A part of me wishes it was some summit

Another, an invisible breeze of a random Saturday evening

sheer wall, surrounding me

astounding, the echo

of all, of me

The drive to be something

mounted on the echoes of unknowns

of what I "need" to be

I can't believe my eyes

seeing this inner child inside-surmise

that I want anything to do with cries of glory

of recognition

of fame

of success

…and perhaps, even of remembrance

Now I see a

Turing-complete mechanism inside my head,

the mind of a frayed and depraved

a hope, the way out from this calvaire

Meaninglessness

through which my self will move, unrestrained

I just want to die in peace…

all worries gone

allowed of achieving nothing of value, or anything, or neither

not for you, nor ideals

but just because I chose to

why is that so hard

please, all that I want is this

I ain't want no mastering

of eight languages

of digital media creation

of prose writing

of musical composition

of philosophy

of influence

of game development

and certainly no career whatsoever

just, an individual, living their best life

living their life

earnestly, for themselves

they live, they die,

that's all she wrote

and this being okay, this being more than okay…

please… please just give me this

forgotten waterways emerge from the past

born without direction, but of might

for an ineffable motion is found, chosen anew

tangles of rotten thought, the being of pure disillusion

sees its skin raked and carved into sentient creation

through which it reemerges from extinction

every desolate prismatic shard roils the emptiness within

as my blood coalesces into a pure stream of luminescence

at last

cremating my soul into pitch-black powder

only darkness, that which shines an invisible red, becomes

all thoughts, all being, converging into singularity

the dreaming of all to fade away

evicerated, skinned and crushed

one axe swing at a time

one yard of rope at a time

my skin aching to do anything

to convey, to finally be

…until I blink and all washes away

left to wonder

how the colors came back,

why they ever left,

and when they will leave again…

…and why I'm still here

being happy, content

why?

what the fuck is this…

never-tomorrow, preacher thereof

way theirs, madly and scorched

whichever plea, considered none to be

may of own obtuse, never self-sight

with such, etch'all sunken beneath

preachers of a tomorrow which will never come

their ways mad and scorched

will disregard whatever plea

never being aware of their own ignorance

with such, shall be etched and sink beneath

strange curios appear a'front my gaze

pebbles, of a sight strange with dreamlike

feeding, sizzling through depths and vile

those, yes, they are but familiar mine