My brain pounds with such intensity that I can feel no other pain inside my body, the meticulous beat of my own heart has become my enemy. Each thump signifying a wave of cruel pulses throughout the synapsis of my own brain. They talk to me, the creatures who want my life and inspiration, with their caring nature and pretentious ways of speaking, but I can no longer comfort them.
For years I have been this beacon of hope for those who wish for untainted logic, a never ending supply of fathomless reason and complete apathy for all that is emotional. What am I now? A shell, a dried up husk of what once was a great force to be held and worshipped, feared even. Instead I am looked upon with pity and mild interest. Some come hoping for that last drop, one single moment of clarity, even if it meant facing a endless spire or insanity.
Life is truly not worth living without the means to which one has become accustomed to enjoying it. Is it so bad to wish for an existence in which there is no struggling? Just a calm ever flowing monotonous vapor of thoughts and logical theories. It must be, for that world has escaped me, I have been cast down from that which I call my own refuge, thrown in to this world teeming with pain and emotional upheaval.
Do I continue to try and force out what once was as easy as writing my own name? The half shadow creatures of my world are no longer full and beautiful, their natures warped and twisted with the strain it takes to even drum up a simple sentence. What has happened to the muse that fed my creative world?
Has it been consumed by the flow of humanity who wishes to see and speak to that which they call my environment? I have been lost to the race for so long I seem to have lost my own will to continue on with the thing that had originally set me free. I have become a slave to my own art, my own freedom taken away by that which was once my release.
I lament, I beseech, I am lost.
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