Eroding core

02 | the final path

Where did all this past come from..!?

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I can’t sleep; I must write!

"the seventh day"

The world is still and quiet, even the ghosts have chosen silence.

Everything seems empty; the only thing that feels meaningful at a time like this is to write.

To feel my essence flow with every drop of ink from the pen, to let my soul pour into each letter.

I’m afraid of speaking; I fear that with every letter that escapes my lips, I lose a part of myself. I’ve always preferred to lose my soul in lines stacked upon one another, for their sight is captivating and tempting. Everything becomes enticing when I write—sadness, melancholy, tears, and all the things that seem ugly.

When I write, when I document, when I tell stories…

Stories about the forgotten corners of the world, scraps of food, stray dogs, empty juice containers, crushed insects— all the neglected bodies here. But I always wonder… why do I write about them? Why do I create connections between my pen and the trivialities of the world, giving them existence, giving them value? Is it because I dream of someone doing the same for me? To write about me… and revive me?

To have someone get entangled with me, caught in a curiosity that seeps into the depths of their soul, so they rise up, shocked, shouting that they want to revive it! They want to give it value! They want it to exist! Just like it happened to me… with you?

That’s what tied me to you—the curiosity that dragged me from my sleeves to you, rushing after the unknown… after the unknown that I thought was my paradise on earth…

But I realized too late that what I thought was paradise is a world of illusion, many worlds! Noisy, resounding, enchanting!

Rina, my blue wings…

Blue is the color of bruises beneath the skin.

But your blue is the sky of my paradise, the sky of my illusory world, the sky of my warm nightmare on a cold summer night.

But did my curiosity truly bind me to you? Or did you do it? Tell me, Rina, you are the only one I believe. Aren't you the one who came to me?

Am I really a devil that resides within you? Draining your soul? Tell me, where are you, Rina? Why did you leave me… Rina?

I threw the notebook as my tears overpower the bleeding of my soul. Rina left me, and I no longer have a soul to read my words…

Wait! I am a nobody; I am nothing. I possess nothing of myself but heavy letters that I glue together on paper. Every time I write, what I have runs out; my letters run out, and my soul runs out. Writing drains me and slowly kills me; this is my plan for suicide!

I stop writing, so I stop dying. No, I don’t want that; I crave death! What if you don’t leave me, Rina? But you died!

To rise above the truth, to let her pure soul depart from the filth of the earth, to leave me—she is a saint! And that’s how saints die; they leave suddenly, vanish, dissolve, without anyone knowing except them, because they alone believe in intuition, in prophecies and messengers. Only they are loved by God, and God does not love devils…

For a while, I imagined myself… turning into a saint, into a pure being, into an angel. I would stitch wings from black goat skin and glue phoenix feathers to them, then fly high into the horizon. But now I’m plucking my feathers, scratching and clawing at my shoulders. I don’t fly; I have failed. I am bleeding, and the black goat was nothing but a picture of a devil who drowned my soul in sins. They are right; I am a devil not loved by God…