Magavont

A strong, palpable sense of nothingness lingers within me, clinging to my insides like a dead and rotten corpse. It’s more than just a void of mere feeling - it is an ever consuming force, an invisible yet heavy presence of an absence, a paradoxical oxymoron.

This void in my heart is a bottomless pit, dark and insatiable; a deep existential chasm that has violently ripped open my soul. It is a nothingness that devours and grows, mutating and twisting within the marrow of my bones.

The cathedral will burn for an eternity, and heaven will lean down and laugh at it.

All that smoke will rise and twirl up like memories of hope across empty streets.

Passengers will feel the heat, yet carry water to throw down the stream.

Ashes will expand and fill the alleyways, and soon, you’ll hear the cathedral walk down with filth.

It’s a strange thing to finally hear the grief.

One day, the cathedral will ache with such profound emptiness that even hell will be envious of it.

There lies within the ribcage of my bones an apathy of my broken soul. It hums within the graveyards of lingering dreams, an insect trapped inside the idea of who I could have been. I feel it crawl beneath my shallow skin, a soft rebellion against the lethargy of mind and flesh. It twirls behind the prison bars of my heart and lungs - a reminder of my humanity, of the child who dreamt in futures made of what-ifs. And yet still, my breath is heavy, and my eyes are blurred; I walk only because gravity insists. I have become a vessel of almosts and not-quites, stitched together by the memory of wanting. And still, the insect hums - a flicker of the flame I once called passion, a quiet yet constant whisper that, despite it all, I breathe.

Time runs ahead of me, and I am stuck - frozen within myself, watching from a distance. A by-passenger in the slow unraveling of my own life. Everything moves, yet I remain. My grasp on the light is close - it always has been - but my limbs refuse to follow. There is no greater tragedy than this: to be born with a mind capable of building cathedrals, but with a body that only wants to disappear. I stare at the ceiling as the sun climbs higher, as the world begs me to rise, and still I lie there, trapped beneath the weight of my own skin. My inability to get out of bed is killing me - slowly driving me into an existential agony that even the angels who care for me can do nothing but weep.

Anhedonia was her name - eyes of sorrow, and tears her theme. And yet still, she does nothing but steal. A thief made of disease, a shadow stitched from memory, a whisper of the past that once showed smiley teeth.

“What is the point?” she asks, wrapping herself in a black veil that never lifts.

There’s no punctuation in a sentence that didn’t even begin.