voracity
do not believe that your suffering is proof of your existence.
people, like flies to a carcass, are drawn to feast on their own varity of suffering. the more grotesque, the better and sometimes, they even engage in competitions, comparisons, of who has suffered the most.
there is something grounding about suffering, about knowing that you are suffering. it is not unlike the fascination with which Dorian Gray admired his own decrepit figure. to suffer, to feel that shard inside tearing you apart from, fiber by fiber, to rejoice in anguish, is something that draws me too.
death, strangely enough, is not the ultimate suffering but the liberation from it. dying is suffering, death is not. death is not. but if death is not, then why is dying?
dying, is something that takes place in the mind, not in reality. you cannot be "dying", only alive or dead. in fact, you cannot be dead either. you cannot be alive. and not being alive, you cannot suffer.
i have lost touch of that feeling which afflicted me briefly, like an old friend i ran into circumstantially, and exchanged greeting with. he is gone. and neither of us felt eager enough, or perhaps, did not desire at all to, keep in touch. so now i say, farewell, suffering, perhaps, in another rotation of the seasons we will meet again.
i was once voracious, but not anymore, i cannot seem to even develop a hunger. perhaps that is for the best, because the world has enough sufferers.
gone, gone, and gone again. gone thrice more.
i have in fact, lost myself. or rather, i have killed him. and forgetting what i did, with my own hands, i told myself that he was never there. but his shadow lingers, like a chain dragging behind me. i did not rid myself of him entirely. he clutches at my ankles, but i cannot bear to turn around and face this phantom.
no, only forward, ever straight is my gaze. nevertheless, this old friend cannot seem to forget about me. how strange is it to speak of forgetting when referring to an event that has yet to happen?
that I, from 2018, 2019, and 2020... maybe even 2021. he has not forgotten. but i have, i have forgotten too much.
that past, is but a dream, a dream lost somewhere deep in the sea. the sea where he drowned, drowned himself.