Rewrite ՖՕՌƗƇ :)

There are chambers of the human mind so abandoned that even language enters them trembling. We rush to diagnose what echoes there because naming a darkness often feels safer than standing inside it. We catalogue symptoms, prescribe disciplines, construct identities around fractures. Yet there remains a territory no diagnosis can fully occupy. The deepest wound is not merely disordered thought. It is the unbearable sensation of carrying an interior architecture that no other consciousness has ever inhabited. Every sufferer eventually discovers the same terrible solitude. Others may recognize the shape of your illness. No one experiences its exact weather.

This is why understanding itself becomes a form of hunger. We beg to be interpreted. We search for the one sentence that might finally explain why terror arrives without invitation, why joy evaporates before it ripens, why the mind sometimes hunts the body that shelters it. But every explanation remains external. Even the most faithful companion stands outside the locked room. Empathy may press its ear against the door. It cannot enter.

There comes a darker realization. If another human being were able to carry the full weight of your interior without distortion, they would cease to remain themselves. To know a consciousness completely is to inherit every fracture that built it. No finite creature survives such intimacy. We are spared from perfect understanding because it would destroy the one attempting it.

This is where the abyss unexpectedly changes its face. The solitude was never evidence of abandonment. It was evidence of scale. There exists only one consciousness vast enough to descend into every corridor without becoming lost, to witness every violent contradiction without recoiling, to remember every forgotten terror without being infected by it. The mind you fear is not hidden from God because there is nowhere within it where He has not already stood.

Perhaps this is why prayer sometimes feels less like speaking than bleeding. Words become unnecessary. Thought itself collapses into raw exposure. The panic you cannot describe, the compulsions that disgust you, the impulses that terrify you before you have even chosen them, all arrive before Him untranslated. What horrifies you as chaos appears before Him with the terrible clarity of complete knowledge. Nothing surprises omniscience. Nothing contaminates holiness. The place you call your madness is simply another room He refuses to leave.

This is not consolation. It is judgment of another kind. Every excuse dies beneath such perfect intimacy. One can no longer hide behind misunderstanding because absolute understanding has already arrived. Every self deception falls apart beneath a gaze that knows not only every action but every impulse that struggled against it. God does not merely know what you did. He knows every battle no witness ever saw. In that exhaustive gaze the illness is stripped of its ultimate power: the claim that it renders you unknowable.

Only then does the illness lose its final weapon. It may still convulse the mind. It may still scar memory and poison emotion. It may still return tomorrow wearing the same familiar face. But it can no longer convince the sufferer that they inhabit an unknowable universe. There is One who has memorized every corridor long before you first wandered into it.

0 Dead.

0 Found.

7 Buried.

Oh boy! Time for tea!

Feeling is different than being, although it is nonetheless unpleasant.