The Places You Go In Your Mind

Crisis

There is a void within me

that opens wider, wider with every day.

How does one die but continue to live?

My heart is a black hole,

slowly consuming my physical form.

How can I be so content in stagnation

that the idea of getting help should feel so foreign?

My brain is a cacophony of darkness,

an echo chamber for the madness I try to hide.

If I were braver, I could die.

Why do they call suicide the coward's answer

when it takes so much bravery,

such preparation, such purpose?

I don't fear death, I fear the dying.

I fear the ending of a story before the climax.

But where is the climax of my story?

All I've been dealt is tragedy and pain.

Where is my greatness?

Where is my quest?

What is my purpose?

Was I merely born to die?

Am I meant only to be a footnote in another hero's tale,

the impetus behind their grandeur?

To be human is so difficult.

Why would anyone choose this?

The yawning chasm of my soul,

with its jagged teeth and putrid breath,

has railed against God

and come away with no fewer questions.

Why do I exist?

What is the point of this pain?

What do I have to do to earn my happy ending?

Or am I destined to die in obscurity?

I don't want to die, but I cannot go on merely living,

dwelling in this crisis.