sombre

desolate lilies

9:34 AM — wednesday september 22nd

it’s a joke‚ isn’t it? 
this life‚ this existence. 
the alarm screams at me like it has something to say‚ but i just stare at the ceiling. what’s the point of getting up if every day feels like it’s slowly eating me alive? 

my body aches like it’s rotting from the inside out. i can feel the decay under my skin‚ creeping through my veins‚ settling in my bones. my teeth hurt‚ like they want to escape this mess of a mouth‚ this husk of a body. 

but i laugh. 

a short‚ bitter laugh that echoes in the quiet room. i laugh because it’s ridiculous, really. how i keep moving‚ how i keep breathing, like some cruel joke of nature that forgot to let me stop. 

my skin’s paper-thin‚ stretched too tight over bones that ache with every movement. everything is heavy. even my thoughts are tired‚ dragging themselves through the sludge of my brain. 

i try to remember the last time i felt something other than this—this empty‚ yawning void. something more than the constant hum of nothingness that fills my days. 

but it’s all a blur. 
a smudge of gray in the back of my mind‚ fading fast. 
sometimes i think‚ what if i just stopped? just closed my eyes and didn’t open them again. what would happen? would anyone notice? would anyone care? 
the thought makes me laugh again. a dry‚ hollow sound that doesn’t belong in this room. 

i wonder if this is how it ends—slowly‚ quietly‚ with a whimper, not a bang. 
no grand exit‚ no dramatic final scene. just . . fading away‚ like a shadow at dusk. 
but then the thought passes‚ because it always does. 

and i get up. 

because that’s what i do. 
i get up. i move. i go through the motions of this life‚ this existence, this joke. 
and i wait for the punchline.