Melancholy

I'm thinking of ending things. I crave the warm embrace of nothingness. The comfort of stillness beckons to me night and day, and the void swallows me whole with every breath.

I hate it here. The people, the air, the smells, and the noise. When will it end? My sorrow transcends time or space, and the crippling weight that crushes my ribcage grows heavier and heavier as the days drag on.

This sadness is much deeper than you could understand. Far more complex than one could put into words. The terrible loneliness follows me whether I am in the company of friends or friend-like shapes that dance around me. The void, the loneliness. It never leaves my side.

I think of long summer days, the air so thick you can cut it with a knife. The sticky, miserable nights that lead back into stifling long summer days. Over and over and over again. The cycle is never-ending, the routing goes on and on. When will it all end? I'm thinking of ending things.

The identical days play on like the offensive noise from a scratched up record stuck on repeat. The sound penetrates my cranium like a terminal tumor that can't be extracted. And I bare it with a smile painted on my face.

But I'm thinking of ending things. I crave the warm embrace of nothingness. The comfort of stillness beckons to me night and day, and the void swallows me whole with every breath.