The dead parts

I was already gone; for what is a human without desire and hope, without someone who cares for him and someone he cares for, and, above all, without a will to live?

An inferior machine is a more fitting description, and if there was a machine that could do my future job then I would have nothing to add to anything.

I found comfort (and even familiarity) in the noises of my empty days. The sounds of the wind, the sounds of cars, the sound of my equally-spaced footsteps that I have mastered over years of walking alone and having nothing better to do.

My life no longer has those distinct divisions of past, present, and future. It all appears like a dot on the expanding line of history.
A single painting that is not completely finished, but just enough to show that its completion is unnecessary and undesirable.


A moment of weakness and helplessness

What is to be done when hope becomes discouraging? When it bring back every memory of a previous hope and its corresponding deprivation and degradation?

What is to be done when the only reason I am not crying is that I am holding back the tears, and the only reason I am living is that I am terrified of death?

What is to be done when independence becomes too lonely?

What is to be done when I see the little pride I have left leaking by the second?

What is to be done when the present cannot endured unless better times were promised?
What is to be done when those better times never came to be?
What is to be done when I see a face beginning to wrinkle, a hairline beginning to recede, and years wasted in wait for a non-existent future?

What is to be done when life is no longer empty, but filled with a disgusting mix of desperation, helpless anger, and self-directed hatred?

What is to be done when trying becomes synonymous with failure, and desire with suffering?

What is to be done when I go to sleep every night wishing to never be brought back?