I am at my lowest ebb.

I have nothing new to say. It is so utterly strange. It is as though every meaningful mouthful of words that I had in me has already crossed my lips and dissipated into the atmosphere; lost forever. And all I have left are shadows of those ideas. Malformed homunculi churned out by the hamster running on its wheel. The same rubbish on repeat.

I am closing in on myself. Folding up the happy, carefree part of myself into smaller and smaller bits and stowing it away into the pocket of my soul. I feel claustrophobic. What wouldn’t I give to have someone snatch that tiny square out of my pocket and fling it into the darkened sky where it’ll spread into a velvet canopy of stars with all the swirls and patterns of a Van Gogh painting, only coloured with vivid reds and greens.
These feelings don’t change. They only vary in their intensity, the general trend towards despair. Worse. I am getting worse. It is like every idea, however fleeting is absorbed into this oozing, glistening, slick black plasma that is spreading like warm butter into the nooks and crannies of my brain. It seeps into every fold. It grips. It adheres so strongly that even though the fluid continues to flow on downwards there remains a constant, thick film of filth. It metastases like a cancer and it will not stop until my entire body is rotting from the inside out. Until I dare not breathe for fear that the stench will reveal the rotting flesh within. ‘Won’t’ and ‘Can’t’ are the same to me now; the difference between the two lost in the blackness of the very ink that first wrote them on my mind.

Lost in the homogeneity that is the uproar in my heart.

If it was a fire burning me away, eroding my will; then at least there remained hope of something growing anew from the ashes. A flower that could spring from the dirt after years of leaving it fallow. But what grows submerged in petroleum? That which remains is pinned down, crushed by the weight. Even that which could be salvaged, wiped clean, would never be useable.

Every day it fills me further, ruining forever all that it covers.

And then there is me, struggling at the surface, trying to avoid being sucked in. Skin peeling, eyes slipping down my face, hair burnt away. Disfigured. Deformed. Struggling.
When all that is left of me is this battle to stay alive, to keep myself from drowning, is it any wonder that I have nothing new to say?

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