And it is there that the question bites, not as doubt, but as rage: At what point does it become a demand to stop being who we are in order to fit into someone else’s life? Where is the code that calls for the cancellation of your own essence, of the very thing that led you to a soul?

You scented it, you felt it, you found it. And then you are forced to disassemble it?

Since when do we demand that others be the map we couldn't draw for ourselves? We owe ourselves the truth before we owe it to anyone else. Let us stop begging to be understood by everyone, and focus on finding the one who comprehends us without the need to explain the wreckage.

Why stab your finger into the other person’s wound until you force them to bleed differently, instead of healing your own pain?

The world became small, and people don’t notice. They are lost in the absurd and the trivial, the boring and the empty. The weight of consciousness is not an achievement. It is an intravenous injection of reality, an acid that corrodes the soul's lining. It does not just burn: it disintegrates the void. Pain is the electric circuit that keeps me forged. I don't applaud it, I need it. And that is the line I do not cross: I do not deny myself.

Denial is the pain of the ignorant, of those who ignore the space they occupy. The space so finite that was given to us as a punishment called "living."

To live as a part of this absurd, of this eternal and lost state of being. There is no one to help you find the axis, you have no one to find it for you. And so, only the action remains:

I freeze my mind, my ideas. Frightened, I throw myself into the abyss. Not to fall into nothingness, but because upon touching the bottom, and only there, do I find something. I do not understand any other way to exist. Only the fall is real. The rest is the ash no one dares to sweep away.