#darkthoughts

I do not live on the surface. I reject it.

Small talk suffocates me. Shallow connection insults me. I would rather walk alone than pretend something hollow is enough.

The world ended in 2020.

Everything since has just been the server trying to render the aftermath.

Have you noticed the lag?

Seasons don’t feel like weather anymore they feel like settings on a loop.

Trends are just the 90s and 2000s being dug up and reanimated, like the system ran out of new ideas.

Even the sunlight feels wrong. Thinner. Harsher.

Like it’s being projected onto something that’s starting to break.

We keep waiting for things to “go back to normal.”

But you can’t move back into a house that’s already been demolished.

This isn’t reality anymore.

It’s an echo.

Every milestone feels preloaded. Every moment already happened.

We’re not living through the 2020s

we’re haunting them.

Ghosts in a world that forgot to turn itself off.

Stop looking for the future.

It’s not coming.

We’re just sitting in a dark theater, watching the credits roll

waiting for the lights to come back on

Twoje krwawe brzmienie trwało nieprzerwanie,

niczym żyletka pieszcząca moją duszę.

Zanim zamilkło na zawsze,

nadając niewdzięcznej pustki…

Pustka.

Pustka.

Pustka.

Kolejne drzwi,

następne noce…

Co się dzieje?

Ciemność wskazuje mi sens,

szczęście przytłacza,

kolce stają się moim uwolnieniem.

Płynę w myślach,

topię się w nieistniejących wyznaniach,

jakby szum drzew wymazywał moje najskrytsze wspomnienia.

A nadchodzący koniec

nadszedł wraz z otępieniem

I used to believe there was a way out. That if I screamed loud enough, played hard enough, loved deep enough, maybe something — someone — would pull me from the wreck. But now I know the world doesn’t work that way. No one’s coming. The walls don’t crack. The air just gets heavier.

Some nights, I still imagine that there’s light somewhere — just a faint glimmer slipping through the cracks, hinting at a life I could’ve had. I can see it sometimes, a soft golden sliver dancing across the floorboards like a cruel joke. I used to crawl toward it, bleeding fingers digging into the concrete, thinking maybe I could reach it. Now I just stare. The light’s still there. I’m just not moving anymore.

It’s strange — the body keeps going even after the spirit gives up. You still breathe, still eat, still say “I’m fine” when someone asks, but the truth is, you’re not really here. You exist the way smoke lingers after the fire dies — shapeless, scentless, slowly fading into nothing.

People like to say “there’s always a way out,” but I’ve been staring at the same four walls for years, and the only way out I see is the one I’m too tired to take. I think about what I could’ve been — what I should’ve been — and it’s like looking at a movie I once loved but can’t remember the ending to. Maybe it didn’t end. Maybe it just stopped.

If I’m honest, I’m scared. Not of dying, not of being forgotten — I think I made peace with that a long time ago. I’m scared that if I ever do find that light again, I won’t have the strength to reach for it. That even if the door opened, I’d just sit here, too used to the dark to step outside.

They say hope dies last. I think mine’s been dead for a while now. But still, some part of me — the tiniest, most pathetic part — keeps whispering, “Maybe tomorrow.”