Whenever you feel like dying, kill who you are, not the body that hosts it,

writing a conclusion to a thought is an extremely difficult task for me: when I’m writing, I’m writing because I have a thought that interests me, and if that thought had an answer, a conclusion, I wouldn’t be writing it in the first place, because it would stop being interesting.

but also part of the solution

whenever you dehumanize others, you also lose a bit of your own humanity.

any human, no matter how much you diverge from them, has something in common with you. and when, for whatever reason and in whatever proportion, you don’t see them, their experiences, beliefs and thought process as valuable as your own, you dissociate yourself from the part of yourself that you recognize in them.

whenever you stop criticizing a system that benefits you, be it a societal structure or a system of thinking, but does so by dehumanizing others in some shape or form, you are also losing a bit of your humanity.

whenever you look at another human being, in the present or past, and can’t even imagine possibly holding their views and beliefs, you are inherently categorizing them as inferior — be it intellectually, morally, spiritually or whatever it may be. keep doing that for long enough and you’ll keep chipping at your soul until there’s no humanity left.

this has already happened to most of humanity. you are born and instantly is being told to adhere to an inherently inhumane society. and you keep going.

each day we keep working at our jobs and maintaining this world working as it is, we are collectively working towards the destruction of the human soul.

all the while pretending that I’m really living

I keep smoking my cigarette, strung by strings like a marionette. Moved by desires I don’t control, I keep just going with the flow.

In a reality I don’t truly believe, things that I should hold true I receive. All of the, I know, complete lies, More of sure of that as time goes by.

Despite all of that I must keep alive, the things that enable me to survive. But that to me is still to little, What I truly want is to be able to thrive. So with my vices I’ll still continue, despite killing me they keep me alive.

Dreams I don’t have, for that I would need to actually sleep. The closest thing is keep writing, vaguely deep things no one will read.

since no one reads what I write, I might as well stop caring and just write for myself

I don’t know what to write, so I’ll write a poem. Don’t know which tone to use, so I’ll try to be solemn.

The world is ending, but it’s a bit hard to explain. But my soul still wants to live, which is hard to contain.

Every job lacks meaning, doesn’t feel like living a life. At least writing is still fun, to be better at it I’ll strive.

I don’t have much to say, my opinions are not worth sharing. In some sense that’s a lie, But today I don’t feel like caring.

I feel more special than anyone, in the same way I believe everyone is. My ego and my soul are diverging masters, I don’t know which one to please.